


Offerings To The Temple Of Mendacity

by Howlynn



Series: Mendacity [2]
Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spy, Angst and Humor, BAMF John, BAMF!Sherlock, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Best Friends, Bisexual Male Character, Canonical Character Death, Coercion, Comedy, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Roller Coaster, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hero Complex, Loss, Mental Anguish, Mental Instability, Misunderstandings, Non-Canon Relationship, Non-Canonical Violence, Non-Graphic Violence, Old Friends, Pining, Post Reichenbach, Rats, References to Suicide, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6, Sherlock's Violin, Three Continents Watson, Threesome - F/M/M, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, dark!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-03 17:09:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 61,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Howlynn/pseuds/Howlynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is safe and sound with Sherlock. What happens if he isn't? What if things don't go as planned, and of course, they never do. Book two of the Mendacity series.  Read 'A Statue In The Temple Of Mendacity' first.</p>
<p>
  <a href="http://s1303.photobucket.com/user/howlynn/media/menIInarrow_zpsac626cb8.jpg.html"></a>
  <img/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Soldiers Fall Too

**Author** : **Howlynn** **Realm** : _Sherlock_ **Story Title** :Offerings to the Temple of Mendacity - Book Two of the Mendacity series. **Summary** : _John is safe and sound with Sherlock. What happens if he isn't? What if things don't go as planned, and of course, they never do._

_Welcome back. This book begins with trouble and more trouble, but I hope you will enjoy it. This is a long chapter but it begins right after book one. There is no six month time warp. The last Book ended on a happy, hopeful spot...but this is what happens next. Things can go to the devil very quickly in dear old London town. This book has a slightly different format. (Yes, it's an experiment) I start you in Molly's POV but can't tell the whole story from her eyes. Hope you will stick it out before you decide it's too sad to survive._

**Character/Relationships** : John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated. John is off on his next great adventure and there are secrets that bind him to Sherlock in ways even consulting detectives can't imagine. Welcome back to Part two, If you thought the first part was complicated, well you are in for a bit more. Please keep your hands inside the compartment at all times.

I **Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

**Book Two**

**Soldiers fall too.**

**_"You're a soldier of mercy, you're cold and you curse,_ **

**_'He who cannot be trusted must fall.'"_ **

**_– Bob Dylan, No Time To Think [Street Legal, 1978]_ **

Molly awoke fuzzily to the sound of knocking. She scrambled out from under the covers and tripped, landing on all fours. Her dressing gown (actually Sherlock's) is at the end of her bed, and she quickly ties it around her, cursing that she must look a sight. The knocking gets louder and without thinking she throws the door wide in annoyance and demands, "What!"

The man turns and clears his throat, "May I come in?" he asks somberly.

"Greg. Umm, sure. I suppose." She stands aside, confused, but tries to give him an apologetic smile as she smooths her hair and wonders what he must think of her, not dressed at half-nine in the morning. "Kind of a late night and I have a shift tonight, so bit of a lie-in. Have a seat. Tea?"

"No, actually I'm here on official business. Could you have a seat? Please?" He motions for her to sit on her flower-jumble couch, intending to join her there.

She cocks her head at him, unable to figure out if he's found out about John's gun, or if someone has questioned something on Sherlock's post mortem. Either will get her arrested. "Am I in trouble, then?" she says trying to joke, but honestly just sounding scared and guilty. They may spend every Sunday together at Mrs. Hudson's, but if he has to choose between friendship and work, Molly knows he will do what he thinks must be done. He arrested Sherlock.

"No, love. Nothin' like that. Just come sit here." He smiles as if he's paying dearly for the gesture, and again motions her to have a seat. His familiarity jolts her and she finally registers his face isn't just full of hesitant regret, but pity.

Molly complies slowly, not taking her eyes off him. He only slipped into pet names when he didn't want to tell her something. After Sherlock died, he'd spoken this way to her. Her knees bend and the left one pops, making her feel suddenly old. He sometimes shows up for a hot cuppa and a talk, but Greg looks brittle and not like he has any secret party plans for Mrs. Hudson or deliciously funny gossip on his mind.

He takes his seat next to her, not even removing his mackintosh. It radiates a chill as if the world has turned cold. It dawns on her, he's going to tell her something awful. "Oh, God. Who?"

"I'm… so sorry." He takes a deep breath and his eyes are going shiny as his mouth forms the words, hesitant and gentle, shoulders hunched with weight, "It's John." His lips clamp between his teeth and his breath hitches. His face pulls into a grimace and he wipes his eyes quickly and sniffs his nose. His head shakes and he is not quite in control of himself.

She shakes her head, grins like he's telling her a joke, sees his face isn't displaying any mirth and then looks down to see he has taken her hand in his. "Is he hurt? What hospital?" Her mind at once fills in that Sherlock probably got John injured already. Greg is here to take her to him. He's like a kindly big brother, with a touch of overprotective father.

Greg's hand is cold from the rain and he's rubbing his thumb on her ring. It is still pouring outside and he is covered in dots of water his mac has repelled. They are shiny, silvery beads with glittering miniature images of her reflected in distorted glass. His body shifts subtly toward her more and she perceives a whiff of rain mixed with aftershave and damp wool. He looks back up into her eyes then away, his voice sounds hoarse as if he's been shouting, "Molly, this not easy for me, especially since you're…I…"

She nods, "He's been hurt, hasn't he? He's going to be okay, isn't he?"

Lestrade looks like his heart is about to break, his chin quivers and he looks ceiling-ward as he takes a deep breath, then shakes his head. "I regret to inform you, that John Watson has, by our best guess, perished," he says, reverting to his usual Yarder method of delivering news to loved ones. He'd wanted to say it kinder and not make it sound so much like a stranger, but he'd resorted to what he knew, to keep himself from making a cocked-up mess of it, trying to soften something that could not be polished.

Molly sat there, eyes wide, no response, as she attempted to digest the words _. He's mistaken. John is safe with Sherlock. John couldn't be dead._ She saw him trot off following the sound of the violin _. What if someone found him before he reached Sherlock? What if Sherlock is hurt too? Nobody would know to look for him if they were both hurt in an alley, but no, to their best guess? What does best guess mean?_ John's missing but they think he's been killed? "Wha…What...happened?"

Greg swallowed hard and with a deep breath, said, "I wanted to be the one to tell you. We don't have a body… I mean, any remains, but that happens sometimes in these cases. People've got no idea how bad the current is. The Thames is never an easy rescue. Well, you know, you have had to examine enough of them. It looks placid but it's swift and cold. Happens all the time. Make a gesture, or fall in drunk. RNLI was dispatched. They were right there, but he never surfaced. Tower lifeboat station got the call, there were witnesses. Two of them were Mycroft's men. One happened to be trained in rescue swimming, he dove in right after. He had to be rescued, in fact."

"Not, my John." Her face begs him to clarify that he means some other John.

"God, I'm so sorry. They did all they could. He just never came back up. Set up a very generous search parameter with the officer in charge. Mycroft stepped in and got us some budget, they're spending a bomb trying. Got him a helicopter and they are still looking, but…could be days or never. Divers checking to see if he got snagged up, but we may never know. Even with all the- "

Molly can't process this information. She stands up but falls back down to her seated position. "No. No. It isn't fair. Someone pushed him. He wouldn't. He wouldn't, Greg. Not after…" Not after he finally found Sherlock. She reaches up and covers her mouth to stop from screaming _. Did Sherlock abandon him? No, No he wouldn't be that stupid. It had to be a trick, unless… Did Sherlock refuse to listen to him? John was going to go with him? Did he throw John away? "I will die by your side or…" Oh, John. You gave me your gun, but you had the escape bag. You wouldn't do it this way._

"Oh, bloody hell, Molly. I can't tell you how sorry I am. I hate having to tell you, but there are reporters and it's gonna make the news, every hour, all day. They remembered him and Sherlock chumming about and it's all turning into a circus. They won't take long to figure out who you are. That damned picture…of the kiss. Didn't want you to find out that way."

"But, if they haven't found him, it could be anybody. It could be anyone at all. Lots of people look like him. They made a mistake, that's all," Molly declares, a false boldness and ease in her voice, yet an imploring mien creeping into her eyes, begging him to stop telling her something so stupid.

"Molly, he left a note, his wallet, and his phone on Waterloo Bridge. At six-fourteen, according to the time stamp on the footage, this morning, just at sunrise. He was seen climbing over the rails and he didn't wait around. Most take hours and two dozen people chin-wagging to either make their point or pull back. It's just a cry for help. John wasn't making a gesture. He got right to his intended plans. A lad here from uni, caught it on his camera phone. He and his friends popped out for the sunrise. Wasn't raining then. They were just out for kicks and having a laugh. The pictures clear and crisp. The bloody kids leaked it to the media…God, it's on every channel. Got no doubt," he says reasonably, in his most soothing voice.

"He wouldn't do it like that. He's a doctor. Drowning hurts. It takes too long. Eighteen minutes to expire, Greg. It's horrible. He wouldn't do it like that," she is reasoning it through, using her training and experience to convince Greg of his error. She's determined to persuade him this cannot be.

"So that means you did realize he has been suicidal for…well, ever since Sherlock." Greg reaches out as he watches Molly shatter, piece by piece. He hands her his handkerchief. Seconds later he folds her in his arms and rocks her. "God, I'm sorry. Sherlock, now John. I didn't want you to see. Mrs. Hudson sent me. She's devastated. Mycroft is there. He's got people searching his flat, it's all pretty cut and dry, but you know his posh, insufferable way. I shouldn't say that. Least he's trying and if not for him, they'd have called it a job by now."

Molly begins to sob and Greg chews his lip and pats her like a child, murmuring silly, meaningless words. The only thing he can make out is 'all my fault' and he chides her gently. He tries to convince her that she can't predict the future, as if he's speaking to his daughter.

He gives her a few minutes and then she leans back and dries her tears, numb and shattered. "He went with Sherlock," she said in a very small voice. She covered her mouth and shook her head, realising she shouldn't have let that slip.

Greg nods. "Yeah, I guess so, sweetheart. That's the jist of his note. You sit here and I'm going to make that tea."

Molly nods, still holding her fingers clamped to her mouth _. Did Sherlock know? If Mycroft is with Mrs. Hudson, he must._ She is torn between feeling grief for Sherlock so raw she wanted to rush straight to his side and being so angry at him she never wanted to speak to him again. All of this effort, was doomed from the beginning. This is the worst moment of her life.

By the time Greg had the tea made, Molly had slipped back into her room and quickly dressed in jeans and a jumper John had left at the flat. It smells of him and she couldn't help but picture his body swirling and dancing to the current, heading out to sea by now, skin absorbing water and face just beginning to swell and distort _. No. Stop it. I can't think about that now._ But Molly's mind doesn't obey her very well and she can't escape her own morbid imagination.

She closes her eyes and sniffs the collar, not wanting to let him go and yet her mind can picture him in the water, just another average looking man, departed and ready to melt away from all he once brought to the world. He would never leave this pleasant intoxicant on a piece of clothing again. John's gone to the sea and his eyes are part of the water. Rigor mortis would have just begun, delayed by the cold water, but his body will be losing temperature faster than if he weren't in the liquid. The last warmth of his life would be seeping out and his eyes would be looking into the murk that took him. Sometimes Molly hated her job and wished her mind didn't catalogue all the stupid information that assaulted her as she thought about John drowned.

Greg returned with two cups of tea and pressed one into her hands. Molly sipped it, looking out the window and watching the rain, worried about him being out in this, alone. It is silly of course, he won't care at this point, but the thought still tugs at her heart. Her eyes close and she remembered how just a few hours ago he was on his knees, warm and almost happy, and how she had ruined it all. "He asked me. And I told him yes, but that he would change his mind. He promised. The last memory had to be spectacular. It was. It was lovely. Not how I expected. Still. It was. If I had known…" she sips her tea.

"I'm so sorry to have to ask, but you were there last night. What time did you leave his flat?"

"About midnight we went for a walk. We talked. I caught a cab from the park home and he left. I thought he would be okay. He said he would see me soon. "

"You think it was over the violin? Mycroft said it…was worth more than you or I will ever make. You think that might be what pushed him? What time was it when you left him?" Greg asks again.

"After two," Molly sets her tea on the table, shaking too hard to hold it any longer.

"Best we can figure, he went to the flat, had a cup of tea, left again. Took his service pistol, decided not to …you know, Mrs. Hudson and all. Changed his mind and decided on the bridge." He says as gently as possible.

"I have his gun," she says softly.

His eyebrows shoot up. "May I ask? Was there any kind of an argument?"

She waited, then sighed and nodded. "We did argue. We were probably a sight. But it was all fine when he left, I thought. We made up. He was not intending anything like this when we parted."

"I see. Tell me what it was all about, Molly?" he studies her, eyes appraising yet still friendly.

She smirked as if it would sound too stupid, but it was more of a painful scowl then a smile. "Sherlock, of course. Somehow he still rules, even now. It was just too much for John, the violin being gone. John wasn't himself. He…he pulled the gun on me. But we got it all sorted. It wasn't even loaded," she almost laughed, her eyes distant. "I don't even know how to load it much less shoot it. He just can't be gone. He was in the army, he could maybe swim."

"Yeah. But not for hours, and with the temperature drop last night, look Molly, I wouldn't be here if I had any hope. He.. he didn't come back up. Most pop back up, struggle against the current. John didn't surface, best we keep realistic expectations. Did he say anything about meeting anyone else?"

Molly froze. "No." she says and sips her tea again.

"Thing is, we have a few CCTV frames, showing him walking with a man. We think it was him, not the best angle, but I hoped maybe he mentioned meeting a friend or where he was going after the park. If I didn't know better…I mean he was a tall sort, it kinda reminded me … never mind, of happier days. He didn't seem distressed. He was on the cameras for Tower Bridge rescue; he just was walking along and suddenly turned and climbed up and jumped. No standing there, no time for anyone to say a thing. Tosser with the camera phone was recordin' before. Would'a missed it entirely otherwise. Damnedest thing I ever … not a second's hesitation. Most pace back and forth and think about it. He didn't. I just can't get my head around that. He didn't think about any of us."

Molly winces at the image. She leans into him and he holds her, kissing the top of her head and soothing her and maybe himself a little as well. So far as a police officer remaining detached in this case, Greg has failed on every count. But, he is human and this is John he's having to discuss. John and Molly have been his to watch over since before Sherlock died. He had loved Sherlock and therefore those who Sherlock loved were his by osmosis. Sunday at Mrs. Hudson's had become about all he had now as far as family. This wasn't duty. John was his family.

Here with Molly, he's as close as he can get to display the injury he feels. He couldn't show his grief, except hidden as barking orders, among his colleagues. As it was, Sally Donovan had insisted on driving him here, like he needed her pity. He knew she was still uneasy with him, since she and Anderson had gone over his head and been such a dolorous stroke in the events surrounding Sherlock's death. He knew she was just being a cop and doing her job, but he would never trust her instincts again.

She could be right, wrong or crooked as a stick, but methodical and contentious as she was, she had no instincts. It is something he considers vital to all really good cops. She would always make a fine assistant, spot on as far as precise detail and facts, but she always blew it by either not trusting her instincts or not having them.

Greg had let her talk him into the wrong path once too often. She was down in the car now, frustrated and probably whining to Anderson what an idiot he was being about John Watson. The signs were all there, she told him three times. It's all open and shut, and they are wasting their time, Sally has patiently mentioned. She has quoted the high rates of suicide among Physicians. It is as deadly as being a cop she had joked.

She listed John's markers that should obviously prove that Greg's instinct didn't justify how he is acting. She had talked all the way to Molly's apartment in her low patient tone, assuming his silence meant she should continue. " John is just a basic everyday case, Detective. _No Matter_ that he was your friend _._ John was a wounded soldier suffering from PTSD. He was living alone. He had a high stress traumatic loss in the past three years, to suicide, which he witnessed. He was making large life-changing, stress-inducing decisions. It isn't farfetched. I wish for you it was, but you have to stop. You're going overboard."

Greg listened to Sally, but he just didn't agree. John deserved someone to go over the top for him. Maybe he did kill himself, but Greg knew his instincts said he was missing something. He didn't care what anyone thought, he didn't believe the evidence was the whole story.

He looked at Molly, wanting to express how much he was hurting right this minute too. John had been changed by Sherlock's death, hell they all were, but he'd been coming back from that broken place finally. " John was a fine man, by the way. Brave. So damned loyal," Greg sighed with frustration and sorrow. When he continued his voice broke, "So bloody wasteful. All those brains, both of 'em."

Greg stands, noticeably restless and exhausted. He paces about, still trying to come to terms with it himself. "Why'd he give you his gun?" he turned suddenly with the question, surprising her. "You can't shoot it and you can't load it. He must've known that."

"I don't know," she says hesitantly.

"But you took it. Must've been a good reason?"

"He pulled it on me. I figured it was safer in my purse," she answers. Her ears feel hot.

"God. He threatened you? That's crazy, isn't it? So you think he just cracked up? Snapped and endangered you? Why didn't you call us? Had to be frightening. He's a dab shot, you know. Was," Greg said the last word, moving John to past tense with a shaking head. Adjustments to a new reality needing to be made quickly were his stock and trade, but it was always harder with friends. He could not imagine John pointing a gun at her unless he had gone mad. Nothing about last night seemed to match with the John Watson he knew.

"It was over. Didn't want to get him into trouble," she answers, but she doesn't meet his eyes.

"Might have been for the best, sitting in a … I don't mean that…You couldn't have known. Hell, if anybody should have spotted it, I should have. I just…need to know. I mean he was pretty chuffed about announcing your plans. He proposed and he looked like a man in love, to me. I was relieved, if you want'a know. He's been in a bad way for a long time, but last night, I thought that maybe it was getting better for him. But still, he pulls a gun on you, then hands it to you, and you go home. Less than four hours later…" Greg stares at her, evaluating her.

"He caught me in a lie, and he was very angry. He realised he was acting crazy. He handed it to me so I would know it wasn't loaded. Told me he would see me soon, to go home. I did. And now you're here. I don't know anything else. I wish I did." She chooses her words carefully, picking her way delicately through a verbal minefield.

"Oh, never mind me, Molly. Just faffing around trying to figure it out. I liked him, you know? He was such a good chap and this is such a shite end for a man like that. He saved lives for God's sake. He was making plans to marry you and it is such a … damned shame." He flops back down, takes two guzzles of the tepid tea and gives her a smile of commiseration. "I just want to understand it all. He was my friend. What did I miss, last night? I didn't have a clue. I should have seen it. Should have seen some sign, it's what I'm trained for. Any other night for the last year, I was sort of prepared. I mean Mycroft has called me. We haven't camped in the Jaguar for months. I missed something. Sherlock would detest me for this."

"It isn't your fault."

He nods, "Yeah. Yeah, it's what everyone said about Sherlock, too. Not my fault. Thing is, something right here," he bangs his chest twice, "tells me it is."

Molly shakes her head and leans into her crossed arms as if she had a stomach-ache. "Everything hurts. I feel like I'm coming apart from the inside. This is what it was like for him, I guess, but worse. I need to see it." Molly lifts the remote and points it at her telly.

"No. Don't do that. Serves no purpose." Greg says slowly, scrunching his nose.

Her finger hovers over the power button, but she presses it with resolve.

'…leading the search and rescue for Dr. John Watson. It is rumored that he had been unable to cope with the accusations of fraud and treason that may have contributed to the suicide of the late consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, who plunged to his own death from the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital just a little over a year ago. Holmes was posthumously cleared of all charges. Friends and family have asked we all keep the former army surgeon and decorated war hero in our thoughts and prayers. Here again is the footage, recorded by three students, walking in the early morning hours, on scenic Waterloo Bridge. Back to you, William."

'Good Morning. At the top of the hour, Mathew Carter will give you the latest on the FTSE 100 and what's happening right now on the London Stock Exchange. Kerrigan Havertry will tell us about our record temperature drop overnight and Scott Kole will bring you an update on what's to be expected this week in sports. Currently, we have the sad duty to report that a respected and beloved member of our community, best remembered for his work on some of the most baffling crimes of recent times, has apparently been reported missing. At this time, it is confirmed that the search and rescue mission has now changed over to search and recovery. Dr. John Watson, is presumed dead. Please be cautioned, these images may be disturbing.'

The clip begins with a girl's face smiling and saying 'Hi' to her mother. In the background a man can be seen walking. The camera goes from her face and suddenly focuses on the man lifting his foot up on the rails. The wind warbles the sound quality and the amateur camera man's breath is clearly heavy as he focuses bumpily from the girl to the man directly behind her climbing the rail. He zooms in at a dizzying speed and the lurching is exacerbated with each breath and twitch he makes. John's face, looks calm with grim determination. He pays no attention to his audience as he finds his center of balance and stands up on the handrails, arms wide for stability.

'Hey, what's that bloke about, then?"

'Christ, you think he's a jumper? What's he doing?" a separate male voice asks from outside the viewer's range of field.

The image shows John discarding a few items behind him. He stands stiffly, salutes. Then spreads his arms and falls forward. The camera-person rushes to the edge of the bridge and catches the splash with shaking hands and keeps the device focused on the river suddenly even shakier with adrenaline; there is a cacophony of sounds as the group mentality centers on stunned disbelief. They ask each other what to do and the girl can be heard describing what she just witnessed to someone in an emotionally unstable voice hovering near panic.

"Look. Another one." The second male voice prompts.

The camera swings back to the bridge and two men can be seen, one throwing his dark jacket, shirt and tie hastily to the other as he vaults up onto the rails. The man holding his cloths, points to something in the water and the other nods, and breathes with obviously exaggerated distress in preparation for the cold water below.

"Naw, he's trying to save the first bloke, I bet." The shirtless man is shown plunging into the Thames in a graceful dive. There is a splash and then the shot ends.

'Despite valiant efforts of the unnamed government employee who happened by on his way to work, John Watson, doctor, war hero and crime specialist, is dead." The voice jumps jarringly from funereal to lively. "Tonight we will have a special exposé on the spectacular rise and tragic fall of the dynamic, though often misunderstood, team of Holmes and Watson, Britain's most beloved super-sleuths, the end of their story, but the beginning of their legend, tonight at seven. Up next…"

Molly mutes the volume. She looks up at Lestrade and sighs, head shaking in denial. "It was definitely him. No question. Maybe they just didn't see him, and he got out." She is nestling into his arms again, hanging on for dear life and mumbling her words into his shirtfront.

He rubs her back, maybe clinging to her a bit, too. Grief is far above all standards of proper behavior conditioning and without bashful barriers or the need for social graces, they comfort each other, stiff upper lip be cursed. "Molly. I was two blocks away. Just off an investigation. Call came across the in-board. I was there within ten minutes. If anybody wanted to find him, it was me. The sea took him. I sort of hope that, in a way. Just gone. You had to do for Sherlock, and I know how bad that was, but floaters…sorry, drowning victims, I don't want you to see that. Not for John. I think maybe he'd like it that way better, too." He sighs and she can feel his breath in her hair.

They won't talk about it later, but an agreement is gently knotted in these two wounded hearts. From this day forward, in times of need, they each had found a sorrow's friend. They had been acquaintances sliding into family since the Sunday dinners at Mrs. Hudson's began. This day tied new bonds. Greg had flapped back and forth between friend and professional several times this visit, but as he held her, and couldn't help feeling his own loss, friendship won. Molly made him feel big and strong and protective. "John was either a damned fool, or there is more to this story. I won't give up."

Molly stiffens slightly then nods. "I'm glad it was you that told me. Thank you for that."

Just before he leaves, Greg turns his tired, seen-too-much eyes on her. "Got the letter when you're feeling up to it. I wouldn't say this to just anyone, but, I have to tell myself that both of 'em are happy now. Terrible as it sounds, God help us for knowing it, but at least now…it's okay for them. I'm just…worried about you a bit. You need me…anything. I mean that."

Molly forces a smile, "I appreciate, that you came. I would have been a mess if I had to find out from telly or some stranger."

Greg's shoulders shrug and he is embarrassed by her acknowledgement. "I was afraid you would'a already had it on. It's high profile. Just wanted you to have a heads up, inquest and the whole mess—you'll likely be called to testify. I know you have to do this all the time, but this one may be a bit dodgy if we don't figure out who the man in the CCTV is. Mean's you were the last to see him alive. Not the same as just giving them details on a stranger. Won't be as bad as Sherlock, I hope. I'll be in the middle of it too, but you call me, no matter. I'm taking you and Mrs. H. out on Sunday, no sense her fussing with cooking all day. We gotta carry on and remember we still have people who care. I know none of us will be in the mood, but well, the three of us…we need to stick together. We don't have much of anyone else these days. "

"Thanks, I'll call. I promise." she says with a nod and an attempt at a smile of thanks. Molly knew she would call him, because this is just the beginning of hell, and Greg may not be brilliant, but he has a map.

Lestrade spends as long as he can with Molly, but he needs to get back to the scene. Sally doesn't say a word driving back, but he can tell by her antsy driving that she wants to say all sorts of things. She stops at a sandwich shop for lunch and forces a paper wrapped turkey and rye into his hands. He nods and smiles at her a little. She was a hard bird in a yard full of pigeons, but so long as she didn't give up, maybe she would find her instincts one day.

He conducts his police business of the day, on scene, waiting stoically in the downpour for his friend to be brought out of the river. The search is called off finally. It is nothing unusual for London. It happens here, every three or four days, that someone decides to end it this way. They usually aren't very successful. RNLI [Royal National Lifeboat Institution] has an exemplary track record. Over ninety-percent of all suicides and accidental fall-ins are rescued each year. Of those who aren't, only about half wash up on shore, somewhere, eventually.

Lestrade leans on the railing, exhausted, contemplative and cold. He looks out at the water, as if he could look hard enough to make Watson surface and smile an apology for everyone's trouble. He wished for some miracle, knowing it was too much 'Doctor Who' and not enough sleep making his mind tumble into such ridiculous craving, but at least it kept him from nodding off. His reserves had been long expended this day, and old regrets had tormented his two hours of sleep last night, so he keeps standing and wishing and watching the river.

The Thames is stunning and picturesque, but she is an unforgiving beauty and for those who trust her whims, there are inevitable falls. She is a gatherer of lost souls and today, Gregory Lestrade, feels her call in his bones. He'd lost two friends in the last year, and he's weary. He is tired of burying great men.

He croons the words that he can remember to an old Bob Dylan tune as he started home, wishing for yesterday. He understands not having time to think, unfortunately thinking is not optional in his line of work. He has spent the day trying to think but the bits will never add up to John Watson's life snuffed out in the Thames being something unpreventable. Destiny cheated John and there is no platitude that can change the pointless waste of all he still had to give.

**_"Mercury rules you and destiny fools you_ **

**_Like the plague, with a dangerous wink…"_ **

**_– Bob Dylan, No Time To Think_ **

* * *

**_A.N._ **

**_I know you are mad at me right now. Don't give up. I do love Hamlet. Here is one of those quotes I find adorable._ **

**_'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,_ **

**_Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.' Hamlet, scene v_ **

**_Keep that in mind at least until the next five chapters._ **

**_If you feel like yelling at me, there is a nice little box provided for that purpose. Thanks for reading. More very soon._ **


	2. Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly tries to understand her loss

**Author** : **Howlynn** **Realm** : _Sherlock_ **Story Title** : A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity. Part two **Summary** : _John is safe and sound with Sherlock. What happens if he isn't? What if things don't go as planned, and of course, they never do._

 **Character/Relationships** : John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated. Welcome back to Part two, If you thought the first part was complicated, well you are in for a bit more. Please keep your hands inside the compartment at all times.

I **Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

_**\- A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier times.** _

_**Alfred Lord Tennyson** _

Molly immediately texted Sherlock.

[Where are you? Are you alright? Please, tell me this is a magic trick.]

She waited for a reply but when nothing was returned, she packed her largest purse with toiletries and a simple change of clothes and headed to Baker Street.

Mrs. Hudson has a kitchen full of people and Molly feels a little foolish for intruding, but Mrs. Hudson welcomes her with all those motherly words older women could deliver with such heart that they warmed you, even if they were technically quite meaningless. "Bless your heart. My poor lamb. There, there," and many others made an appearance by the time her first cup of tea had washed down three biscuits.

Mrs. Hudson presided over the gathering like a dignified pelican fussing over fish. She was as strong as her brew and she might sigh and look toward the ceiling as if waiting to hear footsteps from time to time, but she never faltered under the watchful eye of Isabelle Turner. She never batted an eye at the way her friends discussed her trouble with renters. They all gave the impression of being a bit mad with the way they jumped from subject to subject and seemed to make comments that sounded a bit rude, but not one of them appeared bothered by what the others said. Molly sat quietly, listening and trying to read it all as the older women expressed their condolences in one breath and criticism in the next.

"Well, my married ones have their little domestics but they aren't as volatile as your boys were. You were just too soft on them. I said it from day one. Should have taken them in hand and you have always let your lines blur between mothering them a bit and being their mother," Mrs. Turner said with conviction.

"Oh, blast that, Izzy. You think you know everything and I saw exactly what you were about back in '84. Don't let her fool you for a wink, Martha. She's got no room to talk, carrying on with that Wiggams chap like he was God's gift. Left owing her eight month's rent and had that other poor girl in trouble to boot. That wasn't even the last of your business I could –" Mrs. Dalrimple said with popping-wide merry eyes.

"You just hush, Ida Dalrimple." Mrs. Turner cuts her off.

"No use bringing up old hash. Martha needs that like she needs long red knickers. Besides, her guest belonged to the poor crippled doctor and she might take all our chin-wagging wrong. We are so sorry to hear of your loss, my poor, poor, dearie." Laura Hernsley declared sweetly to Molly.

Molly nodded, but doesn't know quite what to say. They were discussing John and Sherlock as a couple, yet asking no explanation that she and John had also been a couple. She found it amusing and yet slightly disconcerting that women of this age could be so worldly. She wondered how long it had taken Mrs. Hudson to fill them in on the various shades of gay.

She had always thought older ladies to be a bit more like Mrs. Brewerton, sweet but painfully inexperienced when it came to matters outside the realm of polite social standards of their own girlhood. Mrs. Brewerton had referred to John and Sherlock being alluded to as a couple in the papers as 'that silly gossipy business' and had taken care to explain that her boyfriend is 'all man', as if John could not love a woman if he'd ever actually been with a man. It had befuddled Molly to contemplate that if John had been with Sherlock openly, that Mrs. Brewerton would have changed how she viewed John.

She wondered again what John had meant when he told her he had loved men in the past but had said he had 'not really' made love to them. She assumed it meant he had dallied with a man or two, but had some silly definition of his own about what sex was or wasn't. She would have had such fun dragging such an explanation out of him, bit by teasing bit, until he laughed and went on a rant about his bizarre self-analytical hedging. None of it mattered, at all.

Sherlock and John were the most exasperatingly beautiful kind of love she'd ever seen. All she'd asked was to be near it. Being part of it would be a dream. She knew she was capable of loving each of them with all her heart, but even if they couldn't love her back in the glow of each other, this thought of it destroyed was far worse. John would not have jumped off a sodding bridge. To hell with the fact she'd seen the proof, she wasn't sure, because she knew first hand that proof didn't prove anything.

Upstairs thumps and knocks can be heard. Mrs. Hudson glared upward and shook her head in disgust. "Still up there poking around. John was such a private boy. He would have hated this. That man has a screw loose somewhere, and I don't care who he thinks he is," Martha Hudson says in a loud whisper.

"What's he nosing in the poor man's business for anyhow? He's dead, isn't he? Drove me mad, that government car parked outside my building at all hours, watching your building and taking my parking. Should be ashamed," Mrs. Turner whispered back with her teeth gritted.

"Oh, you know Mycroft, he does it his way. All I know is he better not leave a mess. of it. I already had my share when we lost Sherlock. The bits of…people… I found just lolling around in plain sight," she made a tsk noise and widened her eyes for emphasis, "would have made your insides quiver."

Molly smirked behind her teacup, certain she could have made a list of some of the things Mrs. Hudson disapproved of the most. She'd helped Sherlock acquire most of it.

Mrs. Hernsley leaned forward with a knowing expression and a superior air of authority. "Porn. All men young and old are perverts and the only cure for it is a pine box. Do you remember that nice Mr. Wilson, always dressed so fancy and proper, had to be a hundred and twelve if a day? He had a bucket load of magazines delivered every month. Told me they were 'scientific journals', and me believing him , too. Up and dies on me and I go up to make a list of what damage might need seeing about. Everything neat as a pin and in good order, until I open the spare bedroom. He has it stacked floor to ceiling. Must'a had half-a-million quid invested in looking at naked people. Not just girls, mind you. Took me weeks and cost me three vertebrae in me lower back. Hadn't made a dent. Some of it went back to the bloody nineteen-sixties. Finally found a dealer who hauled it all away for me, tickled to George."

"I do remember that. And the tidy check you managed to pick up as well." Mrs. Turner elbowed Mrs. Hernsley and they snicker conspiratorially.

"The wages of Satan spend just as pretty as the wages of back-breaking work." Mrs. Hernsley says with a wink. "It kept me the whole winter of my back surgery, with a set of burst pipes, the roof leaking like a colander, two empty flats and those three kids with that blasted dog chewing the window frames to splinters, and me laid up and helpless. It was that mad old tosser and his porn, kept me from ending up in some charity house."

"Well they won't find a scrap of naughty reading material up there. My boys were a good lot. Had no decency in the way they loved a good serial killer, but they were still such good boys, despite the noise and the strange smells, and all the rest. I'll have to haul that microwave out bit by bit, wouldn't want to alert any nosy biological hazard type people. John used that thing, just like it was natural to have had…listen to me going on. They were good boys." Mrs. Hudson doesn't sound defensive, just lost and miserable.

Everyone makes noises of agreement and Mrs. Dalrimple stands and embraces her cooing, "Of course they were, love. None better. You know we are here for you if you need anything," she says and the others nod and soon everyone is hugging and sniffling.

Mrs. Hudson hushes them all, cocking her ear upward. "Well, sounds like they are about finished. You all better push along before he makes one of his comments and upsets me. I'll ring you later."

Just about the time the ladies had gathered their coats, purses, gloves and scarves, Mycroft knocked. He greeted each by name and with a genteel bow that did not fool any of them, and those who acknowledged him at all, did so with a disapproving harrumph. He strolled into the kitchen with an indulgent smile fixed to his lips and reached in his pocket and withdrew an envelope. He placed it on the table, and tapped it with the tip of a finger.

"For any inconvenience. Also, I will continue to pay the rent until you are notified otherwise. We will eventually see to the belongings of my brother and Doctor Watson, but for the time being, their flat is to remain sealed. If you have any need to enter, simply call the number and we will send an agent to assist you. We have removed the most sensitive official papers, but one can't be too careful about the nature of the documents strewn about in my brother's files. Your cooperation is most appreciated," he said, eyes darting here and there as if searching for something.

"Bit late to worry about me seeing something secret. Who has been dusting it all along?" Mrs. Hudson says slightly offended.

"I realize that my brother relied on you, but this is more to protect you than one might conclude. I don't wish it to be necessary for you to allow strangers into the building in search of tenants at this time. They may have another agenda besides seeking accommodations and I will need more time to find all of Sherlock's hidden compartments. Wouldn't want someone inadvertently injured from accidentally discovering something he felt needed to be kept undisclosed." Mycroft explains as if he is indulging her.

"Sounds like a load of drip to me. You were never worried before, but it's none of my concern. I will need to run the taps from time to time. Pipes go bad just sitting. Would you like tea?" she says waving for him to take a seat.

"No. Thank you. I must get back. Terribly bad timing with the cholera and riots in Conakry, but you don't need to know about that. Miss Hooper, I request that you see me to my car?" he asks pleasantly.

The second Molly steps foot out into the street with him, he takes her arm and guides her firmly toward the car and opens the door. "Please," he says, gesturing for her to get in his car.

Molly slides clumsily across the seat and Mycroft follows, placing his damp umbrella near a vent and fussing with his pant creases to keep them from losing their pristine crisp lines. Molly doesn't wait for him to begin "Please tell me this is another magic trick?" she says unable to control how airy her voice sounds.

"Not to my knowledge."

"Sherlock knows about what happened?"

"I have not heard a peep from him since yesterday afternoon. Do explain to me what you were thinking? What possessed you to…betray him like that?"

"Mycroft, I never meant it to…John just wanted to go with him. So badly. That's all. I don't understand. John should be with Sherlock. He was falling apart. And your brother, too. Sherlock was going off on some stupid nutter plan he wouldn't survive. John just wanted to go with him and help. Greg said they saw John with him, well he didn't know it was him, but he picked up on the similarities. You will have to ask Sherlock why, because I don't think that was John's plan when he left me."

"No, by all means, assuage your guilt in the death of John Watson. You didn't actually hold his head under water. You just sent him to the bridge for a swimming lesson. I do feel it worth warning you, not to rely on my assistance in the future. In fact, should my brother not be located relatively quickly, you may deduce that we have now assumed an adversarial position, you and I. I am not especially reasonable when I am angered. And I am currently very angry with you. Imagine, if you will, how very fractious I shall be if your thoughtless actions should lead to Sherlock becoming careless in his endeavors."

"I imagine you will be far more creative than John was last night. Do keep in mind that even while he had his gun stuck under my chin, right here," she tucks two fingers under her chin for emphasis, " and I thought he might kill me…that he was that far into that cold dangerous side you and Sherlock warned me existed. Keep this one point in your mind-castle or whatever you call it… that even then, my intention was still to save them both. I may have made the wrong choice, but if John is dead, your brother had the last clear chance to save him. All he had to do was say he needed John."

Molly grabbed the sleeve of Mycroft's ebony suit jacket. He reacts by pulling away, but she latches on tightly in desperation. "All he had to do was say yes. That's all. Did he not read John's face? Could he have turned him down? Could Sherlock be that cruel? I could never believe he would send him away. He told me, he couldn't. He said he didn't think he was strong enough to turn him down. If he did? God, if he did and John…"

"I don't know," his voice rose slightly. Mycroft wrests his arm out of her grip.

Molly retreats, aghast that Mycroft Holmes doesn't have an answer, she pleads, "I couldn't have guessed…not ever, that it might come to…this. I didn't have a choice. You weren't there."

Mycroft brushes fastidiously at the slight wrinkle her hand has left on his sleeve. He made a disgusted noise and when he looks back up, his face is again that pleasant, smiling mask of fury he plays so well. The eyes gave it away: it is hatred, not amusement. "Be that as it may, you owed them both the courtesy of not deviating from the plan. The consequences… I fear John's suicide is just the tip of the iceberg. Tragic as that alone may seem, you have no idea where the ordnance was stored so you have no idea what may blow up in your face." Mycroft's eyes are slits of anger. He tugs at his collar and his breathing is harsh. "You are a very foolish girl, Miss Hooper. Now, get out of my sight and if you happen to hear from our dead duo, I expect an immediate review of all information."

Molly nods. "You and Sherlock should have told him. Blame me all you want, but John didn't jump from a bridge because I lied to him. You should think about that," her voice is low and hoarse with an emotional wobble. Molly glares at Mycroft and then shakes her head in disgust. She had let a spark of hope rise when he wanted to speak to her. She hoped John and Sherlock had come up with this crazy scheme to make it so the public thought them both dead, but Mycroft being so angry didn't look like that was the case. She had been so pleased when he asked her to see him out, and now she just wanted out of this car.

"I imagine we will be speaking further on this matter very soon. Don't bother hiding, my dear. My agents won't let you vanish as easily this time." He smirked at her and waved his hand, dismissing her. The driver opened her door, indicating she should exit the car.

Molly stood on the kerb and watched Mycroft and several other officially unmarked vehicles drive away. She checked her phone. There were no messages from Sherlock. The stairs up to 221b called her. She glanced around, knowing there were cameras and that she would be caught sneaking up the stairs, but with a sigh, she tiptoed up the stairs anyway. Mycroft could only have her murdered once.

She knew where John kept his escape bag, and she had to see if it was there or not. She used her key and quietly stepped into the kitchen. The flat seemed eerie. This was not the first time she'd been here without John, but it was the first time she ever felt shivers. She worked among the dead, and had never believed in ghost stories, but for her, there were ghosts in these rooms.

Memories of moments assaulted her and her breath began huffing into airy, almost silent, sobs.

Looking at the mantle, she could see the ghost of a strange red box, so similar to the one she herself had given Sherlock that night, which he didn't even open after making fun of her. She could see her box tossed aside and an uncomfortable Sherlock Holmes excusing himself from the horrible Christmas Eve party, with a look of fear on his face almost masked by his aloof disdain. She had felt like such a fool that night. But she had not understood at the time that he was going through exactly the same thing she is now.

There should be a blond head turned away from her, peeking above the big red-and-taupe cigar chair with the union jack cushion. John's voice should be teasing her that she wasn't doing him any good in the kitchen.

There are dishes in the sink, and she felt the urge to wash them and put them away. They were not John's, but were left by the crew of people who had been riffling through his things. For her, John and Sherlock still breathed here and it broke something deep in her to think they might never come home.

She sat at the kitchen table and took a moment to let the despair, pulsating and begging for her to welcome it, have her. She needed to see if that bag was here, but she didn't want to know. If his escape bag was here, it meant he didn't take it with him and she couldn't even decide if that was a good thing or a bad one, because its absence would not prove he was alive. Mycroft's team could have taken it, but if it were here, then she had to assume this entire horrible day may be real. If John had somehow faked this whole thing, and he and Sherlock were just off saving the world together as they should be this minute, John would have taken the bag. She is clinging to a tiny optimism. Going upstairs may not confirm her hope that John is alive but it could obviously solidify that all hope of ever seeing him again is lost.

Greg said that John had returned to the flat and made tea and that he had left a note on Waterloo Bridge. She had read his note, or most of it. She hoped. She was clinging to this last tiny optimism that John somehow was safe and he and Sherlock were just unable to make her aware that this was a ruse. It may be days before they had the ability to make contact with her, and that faith was all she was clinging to right this minute. If she went up to his room and the bag is there, she could no longer believe in that scenario. Her ability to tell herself that scenario won't exist. A missing bag might not constitute proof, but its presence would be a definitive argument that John is dead.

Her tears subsided and the numbness slowly seeped back into her again. Molly breathed deeply and listened to the quiet of the flat. She can't hear them, but her mind played echoes of mumbled laughter and recreated moments of conversations John has spoken of between him and Sherlock. He'd told her how Sherlock and he had argued long ago about heroes existing. He'd told her how manic Sherlock could be when he really wanted to smoke and John had talked him into quitting. She was never part of these moments, yet she feels them around her, echoes of lost joy. She also remembers her own times in this flat.

She and John had christened nearly every surface with a shag. This very table had seen a great deal of action in the past few months. She smiled softly, lost in the first time they had returned from phone shopping and had barely dropped the bags in the floor before he had her bent over this table and had bruised her left hip, banging into her greedily from behind. It had been so naughty and wild and depraved, yet it was the fieriest passion she'd ever felt.

She remembered the way she had giggled and protested and yet had wanted him with abandoned need. She had tried to warn herself that he wouldn't respect a girl who acted like such a whore for a man, but that thought hadn't stopped her from meeting his thrusts, lost in that building need of her own to be free and take the pleasure of him no matter the consequences. Her stomach fluttered at the recalled sensation of giving up all pretenses that she was not lost in him that moment. She closed her eyes and sighed, shakily placing her hand in that exact spot where she had allowed herself to be consumed beyond reason or thought.

Her first flutter of honest love for John had made its home in her heart right here. They had noisily spent themselves and after she had returned to reality and her mind had come down from the chemical rush of this ridiculous moment of unguarded passion; her first reaction had been shame. Her head rested on this table, John's weight and breath heavy on her as she took stock of her skirt raked up and her knickers stretching painfully around her ankles and tangled in her stockings. She still had her shoes on and she could feel fluids leaching slowly down her leg. They had not even used a condom, which was mortifyingly against her rules and John had been so adamant on this point.

She had voiced her concern without meaning to. "I'm not on birth control," And she couldn't help but let it sound slightly accusatory and terribly fearful.

John had moved off her and she'd twisted around. He looked down at her, at the evidence of them making such a terrible error of judgment. She was bending and trying to struggle with her clothing and right herself. She couldn't meet his eyes. They were doctors. They were educated adults and both of them had just acted like idiotic teens. The thought of John's sexual past and the likelihood that he'd acquired any number of horrible tokens of this sort of behavior filled her with fury at herself. She knew better than this.

John had stopped her and smiled in gentle amusement, "I am a bit anal about getting myself tested. Every month actually, even though I haven't… been with anyone for months. I never do this. It's something about you. I don't think I have ever been so amazed, so utterly focused on a woman before. Forgive me. You are incredible and dangerous and I will apologize for losing my head here, but I won't apologize for how you make me feel. From now on we will be more careful. As far as a slip on the pregnancy bit?" he looks down then back in her eyes, cupping her cheek gently. "We'll cross that bridge together. You are a doctor and you know the options. I wouldn't be unhappy, no matter what you decided. My vote would be to not terminate, just so you know. But, my vote doesn't really count, unless you want it too."

Molly had looked in his eyes and studied him, taken aback by his quiet candid speech. "If I did get pregnant and wanted to keep it? You would be okay with that in what way?"

"I would hope you would allow me to be part of it? I would be a bit of a pain in the arse if you didn't want me around my child. I would try to live with it, if it's what you wanted, but you ought to assume there would be stalking. Not in a way that would threaten either of you, but I do know myself well enough to know I would have a telescope and worm my way into Mycroft's good graces enough to keep a very close eye on any mini-me created. Sorry, it would kill me not to love it, mistake or not," he states earnestly.

Molly had smiled and no, she had not wanted to have an accident at that moment, but his answer had dazzled a few little secret wondering thoughts out of her from time to time. She could see him as a father. She could imagine his face as he buttoned up a tiny coat and lifted a small child in his arms. Molly could see that he would have made a fantastic father, if he hadn't fallen in love with Sherlock Holmes. A place for her had rooted, perhaps, even if Sherlock came home. Maybe, John could have the best of both worlds, and she could live with being a single mom with the support of a father like him for her child. It was not something she told John. She couldn't tell him anything like that now, but it was on her list of someday.

Now her list may be crushed. She stands abruptly as she let the thought of being a mother slip away. Her eyes were dry and her nose was running as she made her way stoically up the stairs to check for a deep blue duffle at the back of John's wardrobe, under his other suitcases and stacks of blankets.


	3. Impossible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Molly and Sherlock met. Molly meets with Sherlock and is more confused than ever.

**"It is impossible to love and to be wise." - Francis Bacon**

**"No obligation to do the impossible is binding." - Marcus Tullius Cicero**

Molly pulled the duffle out from under the other debris of John Watson's life with a wail of sorrow. Her hand flies to her mouth until she thinks she can hold the sound in without a physical restraint. She reaches toward the bag on the floor before her kneeling form. She shook and whimpered as she unzipped it. Molly riffled through it frantic and blurry- eyed. The note was gone and his gun was still at her flat, of course, but as far as she could tell, the rest was there. Her hands fell on plasters, hemostats, various glues both medical and industrial, a roll of wire, and a leather bank bag full of several types of paper money. He would have taken the money. He would have needed money to disappear.

The note is gone but the money isn't. He decided not to take his bag, after obsessively packing and repacking it for all this time. Molly looked down at this glaring proof that he'd only removed the note as far as she could tell, though she had no actual inventory of what drugs and other supplies that he had tucked away. There could be things missing but she wouldn't know. The problem right now was that he seemed to have left too many useful items behind to have made an escape rather than an exit.

 _If John was really dead, he hadn't even said goodbye. He'd told her that he'd see her soon. No matter what happened between Sherlock and John, he should have cared enough to say something to her._ Her mind felt cloudy with all the questions and possible answers. She needed to do something but she had nothing to do. Her eyes searched the room for something to do that would alleviate this turmoil of alive or dead thoughts sparring in her head.

It took her almost twenty minutes to collect herself enough to make her way back to Mrs. Hudson after she stopped digging mindlessly. She had managed a bit of a search of her own , collecting trinkets that made sense to her at that moment. She'd found his watch on a shelf in the bathroom and slipped it in her pocket, because John would need it and she would give it to him soon. A framed picture of the two of them riding the London Eye and grinning didn't belong packed away by strangers. She took a packet of photographs of them picnicking and riding the little boats in Regent's Park. She took three of his jumpers, his green windowpane check Chesterfield overcoat that he only wore on special occasions. She left as many sentimental tokens as she nicked.

She knew she was being completely irrational, but she moved about under an outward guise of confidence. She needed to do these things. The truth is that there is nothing for her to do that will help so her brain is misfiring tasks and they seem important at the moment. She hoped that she was having a bad dream and when she woke up, all these things she took would be missing, which would be proof that this had not happened anywhere other than her mind.

That purposeful harried search faded as she began to calm down from her manic state. She locked the door and walked down the stairs. The window at the bend of the stairs let a bit of vaguely colored light stream to the floor of the landing. She happened to look down and spotted something shiny in the corner. She bent down, shifting the burdensome blue bag onto her shoulder and picked up the little cufflink.

He had worn these the night they went to the opera. They had belonged to his grandfather and he'd been upset to discover he'd lost one of them. She wondered if it could have been here all along waiting to be discovered and reunited with its mate. They had walked up and down these stairs countless times since then and she was sure Mrs. Hudson had probably Hoovered many times subsequently, yet this brilliantly polished thing could not be located. It has waited to be discovered. Now that it probably didn't matter, here it is. It was too sad for her to even think about.

She examined it, trying to understand what the universe was trying to say, by putting this in her grasp. Was it a token to remember or was it a sign that things happen for a reason. Maybe it was even a message for her to keep looking and its owner would turn up.

She opened Mrs. Hudson's door and walked in, dazed and disheveled. She didn't knock or speak, and she reaches the middle of the parlor and her brain fizzles without any idea what to do next. She has had too much trauma and too little sleep and the systems overload, blanking her face and making her thoughts fire as if through static. The sun has set and she has lost hours up in John's flat.

Mrs. Hudson took one look and went into action. "Poor thing. What have you got there? Oh, a cufflink, where on earth did you? I think you better sit down, dear, you look like you've seen a ghost." Mrs. Hudson relieves her of her treasures and guides her to the sofa. "You didn't, did you? See one? I heard you up stairs. I'll never rent the place if it has a haunting." Mrs. Hudson shakes her head in pity as her face screws up and she excuses herself, mumbling about the tea needing to be made.

Molly doesn't answer. Her head is throbbing. She reclines on the sofa and closes her eyes. The static in her mind grows louder and she hears distant bits of past conversation, sees flashes of John's face and can almost feel the wind on her face as John had gotten on his knees before her. She was trying to connect that moment to this one and understand the gauntlet of ill-fated choices that had allowed her to be in this place. She doesn't want to move until this makes sense to her.

The tea is awful. Mrs. Hudson notices Molly trying not to make a face at the unexpected flavor and explains, "I put one of my herbal soothers in it. Thought you might be needing it. I know I do. You'll stay with me, have a bit of a rest and we'll get it all sorted in the morning."

As soon as she has drained her cup she leans back again. Mrs. Hudson is thankfully quiet. The herbal soothers have about the same kick as ten shots of John's whiskey and she can feel the world growing distant and muddled. She smiled softly, remembering how she and John had used his little glasses to play Wit's End and she'd felt almost exactly like this by the time he'd kissed her. Molly shifts onto her side as Mrs. Hudson drapes a crocheted throw over her. Molly closes her eyes and holds the cufflink so tightly it hurts the palm of her hand.

It's four in the morning when she pops awake. She didn't dream, probably thanks to the herbal soothers. Her mouth tastes bitter and she needs to use the lavatory. She stands and her phone is flashing that she has a text.

[I need to see you. Please come.]

She texts back, fingers shaking.

[Yes. Where?]

[The first place we met. Please come quickly.]

[On my way.]

Molly and Sherlock had not met at St. Bart's. They had met near Bart's off King Edward and Angel Street in Postman's park. She was taking a late lunch there in the covered gallery reading the rows of commemorative Doulton tablets. Sherlock was sleeping or she thought he was though she noticed he was shivering and seemed to be talking in his sleep. He spoke to her as she neared him and it startled her.

"They were all fools you know?" he said without opening his eyes

"Oh. I'm sorry. Were you speaking to me?" she asked nervously stepping back slightly.

He wore fine clothes, though he looked a bit rumpled and there was a tatter at his elbow. His hair was a mass of unkempt loose curls that stuck to his high forehead and obviously needed washed. His eyes open and he smiles at her. "Nobody else around, Dr. Hooper. So you will have to do."

"I'm sorry, do I know you? You know my name?" She twirls her hair nervously and tries to grasp any memory of where they could have met. She doesn't want to be rude, but she wasn't accustomed to being spoken to by strange, slightly homeless looking men who sleep on public benches.

He resumes his meditative state, eyes closed again as he speaks at the same pace as a Gatling gun. "It's on your lab coat. You work at Bart's. I came in with Detective Inspector Lestrade last week. He's not speaking to me now. I fell off the wagon. Being punished for rewarding myself for solving his stupid case for him. His wife is a tattle-tale. I know her secrets and she's afraid I will tell on her and the shop-keep she is bedding. She bullied him into kicking me out. So now it is either turn to my brother's mercy or crawl back to the Detective Inspector and pretend his wife doesn't make my skin creep. This is her third affair to date. Poor man is blind. Neither of those two options is suitable, not when I can work circles around them all. With a bit of help, that is. " He says all of this as almost a run on sentence, so fast she has to take a step forward to hear. He holds his hands under his chin as if praying and his face is placid as if he is chanting a meditation rather than gossip.

Molly doesn't follow most of what he just said, but she tries to remember which Detective Inspector is named Lestrade. She narrows it down to two possible people, but doesn't remember any young officer in either's company last week. She wonders if this wife got the man before her fired.

"Oh. I don't remember meeting you," she says carefully knowing she would have remembered that incredibly deep purr of a voice.

His eyes pop open and his head rolls toward her, his eyes change from grey to a sudden green and she is mesmerized by the way he sees her so intently, almost with a hint of insanity. Most eyes never lock to hers. Most eyes pass over her without noticing her. His eyes see her and she sucks in her breath as he begins to tell her things he had no way of knowing.

"We haven't met. You were working and I saw you. You work in the morgue and your boss is a git, and you let him push you around even though you are far smarter than he is. You're timid and like dead people because you don't have to socialize with them. You had the talent to be a surgeon, but not the confidence. Also, from your shoes I see you have migraines and must wear something that keeps your posture from having undue stress on your neck. They are special order, but you should change them more because you wear your left heel down faster than the rest of the shoe, could try tacking a nail head or two into the next new pair, will make them last longer and you'll suffer less for it if you can't afford a cobbler to attach a cleat. Doesn't cost that much, but you are frugal to a fault. Your skirt was your mother's and you wear it for sentimental reasons rather than fashion, which means you don't argue with her, could be she's amazing, but a daughter rebels against her mother's fashion choices unless…Oh, sorry for your loss. You have tiny burns on your hands, which means you worked in a chippy at some point, maybe to put yourself through University but more likely because you were too young to be doing it. They are old and there is growth on most of them, and you have only been out of Uni for three years tops, so this was a childhood job. Family business. Accent not from London, though you learned Received Pronunciation at some point, which means public school. Scholarship probably and you hated it, because you had never had time to interact with children your own age, probably stunted socially by the death of your mother, and the fact you took care of your father. It was just you and he against the wolves. Money was tight and you have never liked to spend it on yourself. Your father is quiet, so you are too, mix that with the teasing you received during your what, two years at some horrid posh girls boarding school? Must have been brilliant for them to offer you a tuition free education. Your father was so proud, wasn't he, and then he became ill and you cut your dreams short in order to take care of him, thus you stand before me a Pathologist rather than a surgeon. How is he doing?"

Molly stood with her mouth open then burst into tears. "He passed away, four weeks ago." She managed to say with some small amount of dignity. She sat down next to him and he watched her cry. He sat up and pulled his feet in toward his body, perching like a gargoyle watching a wedding, and rested his head on his knees and stared at her. He made no comment, nor any move to comfort her. She appreciated the fact he didn't give her any sympathy. People feeling sorry for her just made it harder to stop crying and she hated to cry in public. She got herself under control and looked down at the sandwich in her hand. "Sorry. Want half?" she offered.

He accepted and shoved a third of it in his mouth as if he were starving, then spoke before he was finished chewing. "I'm sorry. I'm socially awkward as well. Everyone hates me in fact. Had my own fun at Public school, though in my case it was Harrow and my brother had been athletic and liked. I was a disappointment."

"I was a bit of a disappointment too. Dad had told everyone I wanted to be a surgeon. He said working in the morgue was a creepy profession." She said taking a bite and chewing slowly.

"Well, I have lots of impressive scraps of paper and I'm a homeless junkie. At least this week. I win." He says with a smirk and popping the last of the sandwich in his mouth and helping himself to her fizzy water without asking.

Molly laughed. Sherlock could tell at once it was with him, not at him and he laughed too. Molly leaned her head back on the cool stone. He was right about the migraines. "Thank you for saying that. And for not being afraid of the creepy morgue girl. I like what I do. Probably weird, but, I think it's important. The dead talk to me in some ways. No, don't take that wrong. I don't hear them. I can see their lives on their faces. That's all. Some of them are beautiful, no matter how bad they look at that moment. Like these." She points up to the names on the wall behind her.

Her eyes opened and she adjusted the angle of her throbbing head, letting a new spot enjoy the cool stone to ease her pain. "They weren't fools. They were heroes. All of them would have been beautiful in death. They gave up their lives and their dreams for others. It's not foolish. It's the most lovely thing I could imagine. I'll never be loved like that again I suppose. My father gave up his great love for me. He left the sea and mourned her every day but didn't regret it. He could have shipped me off to school or some relative and hired my mother a nurse, but he sold his boat and came home for good. Mum said he was a hero and she was right. I may never find that kind of person to love me again, but I understand it. Lots of people think they love someone, but only a few ever really find out. That's who I lost, a bit over a month ago. My hero. I'm not afraid of the dead. I like meeting them, even if they can't tell their life stories with words. "

Sherlock studied her intently the whole time she spoke and she blushed under his scrutiny. "I like dead bodies too, " he blurted.

Molly cast a sideways glance at the man she was sharing her lunch with. He'd finished his and was eyeing her half. "There's crisps if you want them. But you like dead bodies… in what way? Not making them, I hope."

Sherlock reached into the bag and opened the crisps before speaking. "You would share your lunch with a serial killer? I look like a serial killer to you?"

Molly shrugged. "What do they look like? Maybe, they look like people who wear a bespoke suit with a tear in the sleeve and sleep on benches. I know their work, but I don't know what they look like."

"I know their work too. They are all different, puzzles, fascinating, brilliant and stupid. They all think they will get away with it. They all think they are smarter than everyone. But they aren't smarter than me. They murder people and I stop them. I solve their puzzles and follow all the details and it always leads me right to the solution. I love the clever ones as much as I want to make them stop the cleverness. There's the rub. I play the game and by winning, I lose. I have to wait for another clever opponent to randomly show up before I can play again. Oh, but there is nothing like the hunt. I live for it. Well sometimes, when the idiot system will let me. Right now I'm on the rough a bit, because my friend at Scotland Yard is being a selfish tosser. Won't let me in the crime lab."

"So, you're with Scotland Yard then?" She asks, knowing he's probably telling her a lie if he claims he is. Sleeping on a bench in his condition was too much even for an undercover detective. She wants to like him and has the urge to help him, but there isn't much to be done for someone who doesn't want help and he seemed to have burned his bridge with someone who had been trying.

"Consulting Detective. I just invented it. They don't call me that. Not yet anyway."

"What do they _call_ you?" Molly asks with a shy smile, deciding she likes this man with the fiery eyes and need to stop evil men. He'd passed one test, he hadn't lied.

"Junkie, on a good day, but mostly, Freak."

Her breath sucks in at the unexpected answer, and she looks genuinely angry. "That's horrible. People can be dreadful bores. You aren't a freak at all. But what I meant was, you know my name, but I don't know yours."

"Oh," He clears his throat and scratches his head nervously, "Holmes. Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock Holmes. That's nice. Nope, not the name of a serial killer, at all. They always have common names like John, Peter, William or Robert. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. It sounds very official, even if you did make it up. You'll need to get your jacket mended if you intend to look the part." She nods in approval.

Sherlock laughs and says, "From my name, you decided you're safe? Talking to a bloke half the police force in the city calls a sociopathic freak doesn't scare you? Because my name alleviates any fear of my being a member of the dismembering body-maker club? I see why you like this lot then," his head nods toward the wall. "You're like them. Brilliant, I see. But also spectacularly foolish." He had puffed up and glares at her in an intimidating way.

Molly wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. "Are you sure you are safe? There have been a few females who did that sort of thing too. I could be wrong but I don't think you are. No, I didn't really decide just by your name. Your eyes. You have kind eyes."

Sherlock wilts as if crestfallen. He looks down and picks at his trousers. His voice is deep but quiet, "No one has ever said that to me before. Never."

Molly cocks her head and tucks a stray bit of hair behind her ear. "Well, they are all fools then. Who cares what they think. Unless they happen to be smarter than you, they don't get to have an opinion that counts. I can tell you're smart. What did you read?"

"Chemistry and music," he says self-consciously.

"Wow. I tried to play the piano once. My teacher told my dad I was all thumbs and he shouldn't waste his money. I was heart-broken at the time." Molly holds out her hands and sighs.

"I could teach you. I mean I am much more adept with the violin, but I am adequate at the piano," Sherlock volunteers.

"That would be lovely, but I warn you, the teacher was probably right. I couldn't afford to pay you much," she says with hesitation.

"I don't need money. We could trade?" he asks with too much enthusiasm.

"Oh. Umm." Molly feels her throat closing and looks away, slightly offended.

He sighs, and shakes his head, "No. No, not what just crossed your mind. I mean, I need a lab. A real one. If you could sneak me into Bart's late at night, I could use one of the labs and then we could go up to the chapel and I could teach you to play the piano in exchange."

She is still shaking her head, not sure she wants to get involved and quite certain he has somehow planned this. He seems earnest, but Molly doesn't quite buy that he showed up here casually. "I could get in a lot of trouble."

He grins like a cat, "Yes, you could. Problem?"

She laughs and gathers up the rubbish from her lunch. He watches her intently and she has to concentrate to keep from giggling or acting stupid. She stands up and brushes the crumbs from her skirt. "I work the graveyard Thursday and Saturday. Come after two and it should be okay. We will see how it goes. If you get caught, I have never met you before and I have no problem stopping you from coming back if you cause me distress."

That had been nearly eight years ago. She wasn't very good at the piano, but she could play a few Christmas songs and happy birthday very adequately and if given some time to practice, she could plunk out an amateur version of a few classics. He wasn't the best or the most dependable teacher and she was a below average student, but somewhere along the line, he'd become her friend. She'd grown to love the awkward shy junkie and as his success had become more established, she'd seen less and less of the man she'd met in the park and more and more of the aloof coldly-obsessed Consulting Detective.

She was the first to call him a consulting detective, introducing him that way as if it were fact. Now he had this snobby way of bragging, 'the only one in the world' as if it were a credential that had been bestowed upon him by the queen, rather than something he'd made up once upon a time.

She had long ago figured out that as much as she felt his recreational drug use would lead him to ruin at some point, that it brought out a more open side of him she wished she could find when he was completely sober. Sometimes, she caught glimpses of him, but until he'd had to depend on her, or again wanted something, Sherlock was usually too distant and oblique to acknowledge more than a perfunctory acquaintance between them.

Molly had spent years dropping subtle hints that she would happily accept his advances if he would simply make one. But, having listened to him make fun of any girl who acted forward towards him, she didn't want to make the same error. Over time she'd let him get away with all sorts of atrocious behavior, and had developed a thick skin when he said things like her mouth was too small or her dandruff was caused by her cheap shampoo. He always told her the truth. In a way, that was a form of intimacy. He didn't mean to make her feel insulted. She'd seen him turn that sort of lethally vengeful scrutiny upon almost everyone who annoyed him.

With her, he never said things with the intention of cruelty, which didn't take the sting away from his comments, but she had learned to accept his scrutiny as flattery. Other people making fun of him only reinforced her protectiveness. She understood that what they said did hurt his feelings, though there was never a twitch of evidence it was true, unless he was buzzed.

He noticed everything, from her brand change of feminine products to her migraines she never complained about. Her hints didn't go unnoticed, simply unsung.

Over the years he'd done things for her unexpectedly. Sherlock would breeze into the morgue and drop off a box of herbal tea meant to prevent migraines. She sometimes found a box of chocolate, opened and two or three bitten or missing, with a note that he hated them and could she throw them away. One winter she'd sprained her ankle and every morning and afternoon for three weeks, a taxi waited at her door to take her to work. There would be another waiting when her shift was over. They were all paid for and the driver would not even accept a tip. Sherlock never admitted he'd arranged this, but he hadn't denied it either. He would text Molly that she needed to stay away from the tube for the next two weeks, hinting without saying that he knew of some reason it could put her in danger. Once she'd met Mycroft, she had a better idea of the source of his information.

Others never saw this side of him, so they judged her for what they viewed as a hopeless crush on the freak. Molly weathered their laughter and she had weathered their initial pity when he'd ' _died_ ' but she didn't feel caring about him was a waste of time. She didn't feel used most of the time, because it wasn't one-sided. He gave in a different way, but she had always felt he enriched her life rather than encumbered it.

She had had to face facts when John came into the picture. She saw, finally, a plausible reason he'd never considered her date material. This theory had never been discussed and it didn't quite hold water after he'd had to identify a woman from parts that could have only been encountered in a much more intimate setting then friendship. She'd tried to ask once if a phone he was x-raying belonged to a girlfriend, but hadn't really gotten much of a definitive answer, other than something about games.

Eventually he had not needed her to sneak him in the lab. His reputation with Scotland Yard had gained him access. He had permission to come any time. He spent hours there now and everyone knew who he was as he swept in wearing his greatcoat and tight expensive suits. Molly found this unspoken divide between her class upbringing and his intimidating, but not Sherlock. Her colleagues cringed and headed for high ground when he appeared near the morgue.

People feared him, disliked him and had no clue why she seemed to be so infatuated with him. She got away with far more than she should have, simply because if they fired her for it, they would then have to deal with Sherlock Holmes. They backed her up on any lie she told, because there were rumors about his connections.

She had told a mortician that a body had to have the head disposed of by nuclear technicians, beings it was exuding radiation. That week, she met John alone for the first time. John threatened to report her if he found any more heads in his apartment. She had smiled at him and leaned in close and ask Dr. Watson if he'd thought that idea out all the way. "If you get me fired, what do you suppose he would do to obtain his playthings? I mean experiments."

John had turned red, then a little green and finally his face had gone white. Molly sipped the coffee John had bought her and suddenly she'd giggled. John tried really hard not to laugh too, but they both got the joke and the image of the multitude of awful ways that Sherlock might resupply if she were not there to help him in his times of boredom.

If Sherlock were just using her, he could have stopped speaking to her at this point. Oh there was no doubt he did use her, but that wasn't the whole story. It had never been the whole story.

This night, he needed her and all he ever had to do was ask. She, like John, would kill to protect him. No matter what, she would always, be on his side.

She pays the taxi and waits. The gates are closed to the park. She stands in the shadows and looks around. A figure lofting over the fence at her, didn't startle her at all. She was used to Sherlock's dramatic entrances. She moved in his direction and they both paused to study each other for a split second. Molly and Sherlock both seemed to lose motor function and they ended up lurching the last four steps toward the other and embracing. They clung desperately to the other, like two shipwrecked lovers finding themselves the only survivors to wash up on an atoll. Molly hid her face and pressed her forehead to his chest as he buried his nose in her hair.

"I thought he was with you?" she whispers, because her throat feels like it has razor shards of glass grinding into her vocal cords. It is a question, an accusation and she's also pleading for him to tell her that John is safe.

She had never heard him weep like this, not even after he jumped off the roof. That had been a lousy day as he had realized that even if he had survived, he'd lost his entire life. His past was dead, and the life he'd built and took for granted was now all in the past. This is far worse. This, it is a terrible sound. It is a dry sizzle, like he is coming apart as if sorrow were scorching and blistering him from the inside. It's the sound made by a lorry tyre spewing its air or Sherlock Holmes ejecting gasps of his sanity, "Why? He loved you. Why tell him? Why didn't he come back to you? Why did he do …that?"

"I don't know," she murmurs back. She is holding everything she feels inside but she is shaking with the force of the battle. She wants to be strong for him and she knows Sherlock must need her comfort right now, but nothing can stop the kind of artillery she and he have just endured. They hold each other and take comfort that neither is alone in this empty world in which John Watson doesn't breath.

She has no idea how much time passes but he suddenly looks around fully alert and he grabs her hand and begins leading her down mews and through pass-ways. She is lost and exhausted by this sudden burst of exercise. Jolted, afraid and unable to run any further, she is wheezing by the time he shoves her through a doorway into total darkness.

Molly holds her arms out, blindly waiting in the choking darkness. She can smell something tainted with some fluid that belongs to motorcars and something that may be petrol, but she can't see anything and the only noise comes from him. She assumes he is fumbling for light and patiently waits in place trying to force her eyes to adjust by blinking rapidly which is as useful as hitting the button to the lift when it is already lit up. She can't see anything and has no idea how he's negotiating around in this total lack of luminance. It reminded her of a cave.

Out of the darkness, Sherlock's mouth closed over hers and she pulled back startled. More needy than cautious, he clamped her body against him as if he were preparing to take her right there on the filthy floor, in the dark. A harsh, low growl escaped him and Molly's skin prickled with gooseflesh.


	4. In The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly has always been lost to the way Sherlocks mind works. After everything, she's now more in the dark than ever before. Is she just a pawn or does she deserve Sherlock's wrath.

Molly felt like she was under water, her reactions were mumbled and not her own. She didn't protest against Sherlock's mouth consuming her. John is dead. Their John is dead. In the darkness, Molly felt safe and nothing else felt quite tangible to her. His lips were the only reality and everything else is distant. In her mind, even time has stopped. She met his hunger and wilted to sensation.

She is guided backwards and her mind is not sure if she is falling but she feels a ledge and he pushed her, urging her to move backwards and then lifted her and she did fall onto something that felt like a bare mattress. He moved on top of her and her shirt was up and her eyes still can't find a crack of light to focus her vision. Her eyes closed and the dark didn't matter because her sight stopped fighting for a pinpoint of radiance.

By touch alone she has removed his shirt and he still hasn't said a word. Her cloths were flying piece by piece into the darkness and his followed. She opened to him and he nestled to her, hard and needful.

"Please. I need a light. I want to see you," she whispered and it sounded louder than she'd meant it to.

"No light. Pretend I'm him," he said softly, "You don't want me, but I need you. Please, Molly."

"Wait, no. I want to see you. You're not him. Don't do that to me." She pressed her fingers to his chest backing up her words.

Molly heard the sigh and there was some fumbling. Suddenly there was a tiny square of brilliance and Sherlock looked blue. "Better?" His phone screen provided the only luminance.

"Yes. Better," she said, paying no attention to the surroundings, only looking in his blood-shot, black-streaked in this strange light, eyes. "Slow down."

He nodded. "Molly? Even in the light?"

"Of course. Yes. God, yes," she said with a tender smile and a nod.

He growled again and with enough force to move her six inches, he impaled her on his flesh. She cried out in surprise and a little pain, but this unquenched desire she's had forever is swiftly washed in grief and urgency. Molly wrapped her legs around him and encouraged his manic lust. It was not gentle or sweet or a fantasy. Instead it was greedy and nearly silent and edges on violence, yet the thought of him for so many years brought her to the brink and she doesn't fight it. She smiled and then she stopped breathing and closed her eyes, shuddering beneath him, and when she finally breathes it came out with an animalistic energy she can't contain.

Sherlock was set off by her sounds. He holds still, quaking and twitching and his eyes are wide and unfocused as finally a single sigh escaped him and he collapsed on top of her. This has taken less than five minutes and she is exhausted from the power of it.

He quaked in a different way and his voice was broken and rasping in rhythm to the convulsions in his abdomen, "God, what did I do?"

Molly froze. If he started saying he regretted this while he's still… she's going to punch him in the face.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I swear I sent him back to you," Sherlock said.

"Oh." She reached up and cradled his head and he slid to the side and rolled on his back. His face turned red. Molly leaned over and kissed him, little pecks of comfort on eyelids, cheeks and temples.

The phone screen goes black and as Molly fumbles for it, to light it up again, there is a scream. Technically she knows it could have only come from Sherlock, but it sounded like a soul ripping from flesh.

"Sherlock. Oh God, don't go crazy in the… the dark." She grasp for the button that will again light up the phone screen. Molly can't seem to find the correct button and worries that it is dead.

"Leave it. The dark is better," Sherlock said in his normal voice, now as starling as the scream. "We need to talk and I think the dark is better. Need to hear what you have to say, no deducing. Just your words."

"Ok. You are done screaming right, because that almost gave me a heart attack," she said carefully.

"Yes. Now, tell me why. You told him. After all I said to you. You told him."

She rolls back over and her head sinks to his chest. "I lied to you. I didn't mean to, but I didn't want to believe it at first either. But every day, I knew he was worse than I wanted to pretend. I did try to tell you, and when I was away, I didn't trust myself to see. I didn't know how to tell you. He wasn't well, Sherlock. He was a long way from it. I was trying to put plasters on stab wounds. He was bleeding out that night. I was fooling myself. I don't know what it was about the violin. But he was worse than I'd ever seen him, and I have seen some bad things."

"Then it was my fault. You should have told me all of it. You took on things I never asked you to do. You told me bits, but not the entire picture. I should have paid attention. I almost hated him. I was so mad at him. He pulled a gun on you." His chest heaves under her head.

"Yeah, it was unloaded," she tells him quickly.

"Did you know that?"

"No. Not at that moment. I told him, because I could see his mind working and it was not going to figure out anything that would end well. He was so distant. I thought it would help. He did scare me but the gun was not loaded. I wasn't in any real danger. I didn't know he had the clip in his pocket."

"Then it wasn't unloaded. Physically it was, but not in your mind. I have seen him kill. Molly, I should never have asked this of you. I should have done so many things differently. You have lost something. I ruined you, but I knew that long ago. I am always right." His hands roam up to her neck and he blindly caresses her cheek.

Molly is unsure what to say and whispered,"I did it for me. I loved him. I loved him too much…to face that he was being so honest about it. He made jokes about it. Killing himself...I get what he meant now, but it wasn't real when he said those things. I was afraid at first, but I really, sort of, got used to it or something. He told me this would happen, that first time you asked me to go over there. I wanted to change that. I thought I could love him enough to keep him alive. "

"Me too," Sherlock whispered back.

"I know," she soothed.

"But he didn't…know. He'll never know that I felt that for him. I said it, but not like he did. Not letting him see it. I lied to him. I wanted him to be safe. He kissed me and told me he loved me. I rejected him. It killed him. He could live with me dead, but not with knowing I did it all on purpose. We are both to blame here. I sent him away and I killed my John. We killed him. We murdered him. It didn't have to be. You shouldn't have told him. That was the moment you betrayed me."

Molly cleared her throat, "He was so happy. He wanted to go. It would have been better. Why didn't you just take him with you? What happened between you?"

"Did you see what was texted back and forth?"

"Some of it."

"I… have never been so angry with him. He threatened you, to draw me out. It was so much like standing on that roof, with no choice. I told him he wasn't necessary to me. I told him he was a fool to leave you when I could never love him like you do."

"Sherlock. That was an awful thing…"

"No. It's true. You care. You always care. I'm not like you. I am broken and I use people. Using people isn't the same. All this time, I knew how you felt…and I used it." His voice is slow and peaceful, as if he's accepted that he is some sort of monster.

"And you cared. I know you do." She moved her head, nuzzling him.

"Not like you deserve. Not like he deserved. I left him there, on the floor. I slipped away, and I kissed him...but he didn't know. I hurt everything that cares for me. I always have. I ruin everyone. It's what I do. I took you and I made you a liar, and a sneaky, cunning thing full of desperation and deceit. "

"But, you don't understand. I could have stopped. Sherlock, don't you get the big picture? I could have just, moved on. I tried a few times, you know? " She punctuates her words with a kiss on his chest.

"Why didn't you. Why did you care? I have nothing to give anyone and most people see that at once. You never stopped. From that first day, you never made fun of me. You slowly sunk to my moral cesspit and now you have lost. Everything you were is gone. " He rolls slightly; she can feel his breath on her face and him stirring again against her thigh.

"Because at the time, nobody else loved you. Greg cared, but you didn't really have anyone else. You hadn't moved to Baker Street yet. You had a thousand acquaintances from the Queen herself to Stinky-Sam living in the sewers, but nobody…loved you. It broke my heart."

"It didn't bother me. I didn't care," he said without inflection.

Molly shook her head even though he couldn't see her. "That's not true. The first time we met, you told me everyone hated you. You wouldn't have admitted that if you hadn't noticed it. You wouldn't have noticed it if it didn't bother you. I loved you. All these years later, I still do. Until you met John and Miss Adler, I wasn't sure you could love. But that didn't matter. You were still worth loving."

"I was a junkie. Still am. If we are being truthful. You are an idiot, to love something like me. I've never given you anything but hurt feelings and trouble. Though I have obviously rubbed off on you in some small way. That is not a complimentary statement. You betrayed me. I don't suppose it matters much which one of us actually affected him in the end. He died because we both pulled his last triggers. He is dead and we killed him." He doesn't let her argue, but kissed her again.

This time, it was slow and languid. Sherlock's hands were gentle to the point of reticence. Molly doesn't mind, she lets him set the pace and in this pure cloak of night, adored him. Her fingertips memorized his form and her tongue tasted his skin. The world is beyond this ebony wall of mutual grief, pushed away for this moment and as blind as her eyes are this second. Nothing matters out there right now. She was entombed with sensation, and they found their dark joy, a tiny reprieve from the gloom of regret.

They don't sleep afterward, but each dozes with their own thoughts for a time. It was warm against him though the chill of air swirls around them, trying to escort them into compliant wakefulness.

"What is this place?" Molly asked, finally admitting the cold air has beaten her will to sleep.

"Nothing but an old bolt-hole of mine. This delivery truck and I are old friends. I keep it here. Have for years. Comes in handy from time to time. Great place to shoot up. Never brought anyone here. It was my secret of last resort. I am giving you a key to this place, just in case you ever need it. I leave London in a few hours. I will never come back. This is goodbye."

"No. You said that before." Molly squeezed his hand and pressed it to her lips.

"I meant it then too, but I should have just gone. None of this would have happened if I had done what I intended. I was delayed," he muttered the last part seductively then his lips brush her temple and ear.

"I think you should tell me all of it. I know you haven't. I deserve the truth. You said more than you told me. What happened to John?" Molly scooted closer to him turning to face him, even though she can't see his expression.

"Yes, I did. But I think we both played our part in it, don't you? Now it's time for us to pay the price. Keep your wits, my dear. You will need them. "

"What do you mean?"

"I am off to pay for my sins." He said and without preamble sits up and somehow began dressing.

She felt the delivery van move to his weight suddenly being absent and unexpectedly there is light all around. She looked around, confused and he was buttoning his trousers. He was smiling but it isn't the smile of a man who just had a shag. Sherlock looks at her as if he could kill her and anyone else who he felt like playing with. He had the same look of pure surety and truth as Jim carried in his eyes. The clarity of a serial killer, she'd heard Sherlock call it.

"What sins? Tell me, Sherlock. What happened. I can see you were in a fight. Was it with John?"

He grins aloofly. "You saved me and then betrayed me. I am doing that as well. You are a mirror. I am betraying you but giving you a small escape." He rattled the keys in his hand and holds them out to her. "The van won't run, without some mechanical intervention. Battery is dead, tyres are flat. The petrol has probably tarred up the carburetor. Don't count on her to get you anywhere, but close the doors and light a candle and she's a warm enough place to sleep. You might bring a quilt or two and some food. You can survive here for weeks and it will drive Mycroft insane. If you are careful."

"I don't understand? What do you mean when you said that you're betraying me? What are you talking about?" Her eyes squint against the harsh light and her hand shielded her eyes from the abrupt glare.

"I mean, you are my flash-bang. Mycroft will think you did it on purpose. He will focus on the wrong thing in his rage and miss the important parts. Beware of my brother. I am giving you a fighting chance. Here is a bolt hole, and now for the betrayal. I love you too, but we killed John Watson together and the crime won't go unpunished. I'm sorry Molly. Mycroft has to be kept out of this, this time. I know what he will try to do to you. I insured it. How you handle it is up to you, but I have faith that you will keep him well entertained for me."

Molly hasn't even thought to scramble for clothing. She stares at him as if she's gone deaf and mute. "You…I…" is all she squeezes out.

His eyes blazed and he grinned at her expectantly. His rapid movement stopped once he shrugged his rumpled blazer on. "You should stop caring about me. Caring was never an advantage. I don't know if you can out fox my brother for long. It doesn't matter. It's the price of betraying me. This place, he's never found it. It gives you a sporting chance. I leave you to whatever fate you make for yourself."

He tosses the keys at her. "I know about you and Jim. I've always known. I knew about John too. You lied to me. You knew it would hurt me and took him to your bed anyway. I tried not to hate you for it. I told myself fairytales. Caring about you blinded me. I will always care, but love and hate grow on the same stem, Molly. Love is a game for fools and I knew better, but it is the same as being a junky, isn't it? It stops feeling good and becomes a burden. It makes us crave and scurry around to keep it. When it stops there are no cures because your brain has rewired. It becomes everything. You gave me everything and then snatched it away. John and Molly loved Sherlock. You can love dangerous things. You always do. But, dangerous things are dangerous. You can love an Adder. Snakes are beautiful creatures, but they still are capable of biting the hand that snatches them to safety from a fall. Hard lesson, but a valuable one."

"You're teaching me a lesson? You blame me?" She can't fathom how this encounter has changed so quickly. "You want to punish me, for John's death? Jesus, you have to be kidding me here. Don't be a coward, Sherlock. I won't play this kind of game. I won't. You made me wait all this time. And the reasons were horrible, but we were here…and…what was this? What did you think we were doing here?"

"I would have stopped if you had asked me too. Call it my last gasp of sentiment. I always wondered. Jim knew your face and I only imagined. I saw it when you were with John. Call it jealousy. Call it whatever you have to, to make yourself understand that I have the ability to destroy everything I touch. This, me handing you a place to hide, is sentiment. I am handing you a bit of time, nothing more. Mycroft will be hunting you and that works in my favor. What my brother will do to you if you don't wish to play, well that…Molly Hooper. That? Is justice."

"Sherlock, you are not making any sense at all. I haven't done anything but try to be your friend. He knows that. Mycroft will not just forget about finding you and go off on some goose chase seeking revenge. I don't matter, " Molly explains urgently, trying to figure out what has gone wrong in this exchange. She can't grasp how he has made these decisions much less what he hopes to gain. Mycroft is angry with her, but she will simply explain that Sherlock has set this up hoping to distract his brother and it will accomplish nothing.

"Oh, yes. You will reason with him? At this time, I'm afraid your status has changed. My brother has few weaknesses, few faults. He makes his living by never being vulnerable to his enemies. The thing is, I know things that others are not privy to. I know how to make even my brother…dance," He said and then smiled with a gleeful malevolence.

Molly is uncertain what to say. Her head shakes and her hands bring wadded clothing to her chest in a useless gesture to shield herself from his gaze. "You can't be angry at John for threatening me and turn around and set me up to be destroyed, maybe tortured by your own brother. That's crazy, Sherlock. You just need to calm down and we can –"

Sherlock's voice is thunderous and his face twists into rage, " John loved us and we failed him. We failed him and I will see that his death serves a purpose. He died for nothing. Do you understand? Nothing. Nothing but our failure! We failed him. You failed him. I failed him. And I swear on my worthless soul that the world will burn for it. I will burn for it. Mycroft, you, everyone will burn, who failed John Watson. He was better than us all."

Molly's eyes are wide and fearful. She has never seen Sherlock act like this. Her own voice is soft and timidly gentle, "So burning the world is what you think he would want? You think it is some sort of justice, for John?"

Sherlock laughs in exasperation. He takes several deep breaths and calms himself as if she had almost fooled him. He paces then stops and picks something up off the floor, examines it and stuffs it in his pocket. He steps back to the van and his face is amused and haughty again.

His chin lifts and he speaks in his superior purr of taunting snobbery, " You don't need to instruct me on justice, Molly. Justice is a roll of the dice at best. There is no justice. You and I, are guilty. Now roll your dice and I am off to roll mine. Farewell, Dr. Hooper." From his pocket he draws two small green dice and shakes them in his fist. "Seven come eleven." He rolled them and smirks. "Snake eyes. Now, I think we can say, we are done shooting the crap." He said with feigned disappointment.

"Sherlock. Wait. Please. Sherlock!" she screamed as he turned his back and walked out the door. It closed with a slam of finality.

Molly sat in total shock. It all hit her and she flung herself backward on the mattress and wailed like a soul was ripping from her flesh.

She looked around and shook her head at how perfectly horrible this had become. "Oh, John. John, what happened? I don't even know what happened!" She shrieked to the empty garage.

* * *

**I do know that you are probably confused. The next chapter will be up quickly, shedding light on some of the mess. The rat was our hint from the great ones – now it is my hint to you. We are about to meet a very interesting Rat.**


	5. Rat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened between John and Sherlock. John meets someone from his past.

_**Twenty-eight hours earlier…** _

John hadn't meant to reveal himself to Molly like he did, but he had meant what he said. He loved Molly and even as he pulled away from her, he knew he wanted to go back to her as soon as possible. He couldn't quite reconcile how that would work with Sherlock, but he would figure it out when the time came. He trotted behind the man he'd bullied into seeing him. The precious violin is now tucked under a new version of the greatcoat.

John had caught up to him, just as it began to rain in earnest and Sherlock had said all he needed to hear, "Follow me," before he turned and jogged off.

John was helpless to do more than run. He can't speak. He follows a ghost made flesh and it called him so deeply he can do little else but match the long strides with his own shorter ones. He doesn't care where he's leading; only that Sherlock is real, and John is gloriously getting to run in the rain and the dark with the feeling of hope in tomorrow. Sherlock was racing ahead, not looking back and John ran one step behind, just where he belonged.

By the time they stopped, John was sucking wind, having lost some stamina in the last year. Finally, they are on the other side of Regent's Park and Sherlock turned down a short mews and stepped up to a blue door, unlatching it without a key and held it open for John to follow. They took a moment to catch their breath and leaned against the wall, laughing at the absurdity of having to take such precautions.

It felt nostalgic to John and all his anger melted as their breath drops from gasping to merely winded. Sherlock carefully dried the violin and tucked it into the case standing open on a bench facing a tiny fireplace.

John sighed in relief. "Sherlock. God. What the bloody hell were you—"

He hadn't expected to be in a fist fight and he never saw the blow coming. He clutches his nose painfully and curses under his breath. Standing there holding his nose, John looked at Sherlock like a puppy whose tail has been trod upon.

"That was for scaring Molly," Sherlock railed at him. " I don't quite know how you deduced the truth, but threatening her was unforgivable!" He hits John again, this time knocking him down. "That was for being such a prat and worrying me with your moping." He hits the stunned John again as he struggles up from the floor. "And that was for … leaving her to follow me."

John was angry now and he crouches into a low, tackle position. Bloody nose and eyes wild, he anticipates Sherlock's quick sidestep and his head dead-centered Sherlock's chest; the two of them tumbled into a jumble of flailing limbs, grumbling and wrestling. John comes out on top and returns the joy.

"That is for leaving me to go be dead. And this…is for leaving me…making me watch you die. Making me your bloody witness, 'Stay right there, John!' And this…is for you leaving to go be dead.. dead! You. Egotistical…Bastard!" he said wailing on Sherlock's face, teeth and nose be damned and still receiving the odd blow in return. The blows are painful, to be sure, but John isn't putting any power into the jabs.

Neither was willing to end the battle as a draw or give in to the other and yet, John, capable of dispatching Sherlock and several others never does any definitive damage to Sherlock whilst Sherlock employs none of his own lethal dirty tricks on John. The scuffle, filled with much grunting and name calling far beneath either man's station in the world, does not lead to any decided victory nor permanent injury, but there is an accumulated toll as time slips and a graceful exit for either party has past.

Then, both worn out, abruptly making eye contact accidentally, they both began laughing again. John's laughter turned to tears. He can't help that even in this half embarrassing position, straddling Sherlock and both unkempt and rough looking with swelling eyes and trickles of blood mixing in the tears of happiness, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held on to him as tightly as he'd strained to keep his sanity all these months.

Sherlock returned the gesture and the two men cleave to each other but said nothing.

Finally John rolled off and wipes his eyes. They lie side by side, on the bare soiled floorboards, staring at the ceiling. Sherlock explained. John listened. Then Sherlock explained why John can't join him and why he must forget their association and John rested in silence as his heart hammered in his chest.

"Please don't leave me," John whispered.

Sherlock sighed deeply, but he sounded of more regret than resolve, "I have no choice. You can't go…I explained it—"

"I'm going with you, Sherlock, and there isn't a damned thing you can do about it. I assure you. If you know anything …at all…about me. You know-" John banged the floor with his fist and sat up, glaring at Sherlock.

"You shan't go. That is final. I'm sorry." Sherlock said sitting cross-legged and leaning up against the tiny bed, still made, in this hourly rental room.

"You don't get to decide," John replied.

"Actually, I believe I do." Sherlock's head turned toward John and he's annoyed to have to keep going through this with him.

"You need me," his voice is firm, but John's eyes pleaded as he used the corner of his shirt to dab at some blood on his brow.

"I don't," Sherlock said with a shrug.

"I need you," John said, trying to smile and say more with his eyes. He crossed his arms and used his most stern glare.

Sherlock looks away, pointedly ignoring John's gaze. "Not my problem."

"What?" John stands abruptly, and stared down at his friend. "Not your problem?"

Sherlock looks up at him, pulling his knees close. He narrows his eyes and says firmly, "You have forgotten who I am, John. You have aggrandized me in your mind since my death. Now you see me as I am, as I have been all along and it disappoints you. I always did, if you were honest. You need to go back to Molly. She can love you as I cannot. The best I can offer you is wasting my mind trying to calculate all the permutations of not hurting your absurd little feelings every five seconds. It's the best I can do. You know that. Frankly, I cannot spare the mental space or energy for your inconsequential human emotions. Protecting you and dealing with your constant disappointments isn't worth it," Sherlock said with his hands steepled under his chin as if he were in his chair in their Baker Street flat.

"Stop this. When have you _ever_ worried about my feelings? That is a load of rubbish and you know it," John said, using his finger to gesture at Sherlock.

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"What about now? It's all over your face, John. I am doing it right now, just by trying to not hurt your feelings. By doing what is best, even if you're too thick to see it. Christ, what does it matter? You are not coming, because I do better without you. I can hide longer, not worried about your little tummy growling. I can think better and if I feel like a cigarette or anything else, I don't have to faff around asking your damned permission. I don't need a father, John. He died years ago and I wasn't shopping for a new one. Besides, Mycroft thinks it's his job by default and would be jealous. I don't need you, so that ends the argument. Now, if you have half a brain in your head you will turn around and walk out of here. Go be dull and breed with Molly and raise a passel of boring thoughtless creatures that will not visit on Christmas and will only ring you up when they need bail or tuition. This is why I didn't tell you. This is why I choose not to take you with me."

John stood there breathing deeply as his only display of his fury. He is silent. He blinks and shakes his head. John leaned over awkwardly. That won't work and he puts his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He drops to one knee then brings the other down and kneels in front of Sherlock.

He kissed Sherlock softly, sweetly and almost with reverence, on the lips. He pulls back then looks him sincerely in the eye. His voice was calm and measured, not giving away the fear that sparkled in his eyes, "I love you. I love you. Please don't. Just. Don't. I have to go. No matter what you say, I can't do this anymore. I have to go with you. It is my job to keep you safe. It's my job, Sherlock. My only job. Don't take that from me. I won't complain. I won't demand another thing from you. Just let me…please…let me be by your side. I'd go anywhere with you. I love you."

Sherlock looks up at him and shakes his head. "Married to my work. Marry the girl you threatened to kill, if she will still have you. I'll be leaving London alone."

John recoiled. He stands up quickly. "Fine. That's fine. You go off and get yourself killed. I'll be on your welcoming committee. Because the only way you walk out of here without me, is over my dead body. Do that and I will believe you. Other than that, I was letting you know that we were going together, the asking bit was just to be polite." His head wobbled with a jaunty determination as if to dare Sherlock to try anything. He was angry, but John was never one to give up very easily.

"Oh, God. And you call me dramatic. I'm not killing you." Sherlock stands and brushes off some of the dust they acquired rolling around on the floor in wet clothes. It turns to a smear of mud mostly, but Sherlock doesn't seem to notice the futility of his actions.

"Good. That's what I thought." John smirks. His shoulders dropped slightly in relief.

"Here, let me dust off your back, you idiot." Sherlock says with a roll of his eyes. He begins dusting John's clothing off with determined swipes and moves around behind him.

"You were bluffing. I knew that, you know. I know that you…" John was startled by the arm that slid around his throat, but he offered little resistance as his head was forced forward in a traditional sleeper hold.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said and clamped down.

John kicked and thrashed and tugged on the arm, finally forcing a strained, "You better kill me, Sherlock. I'm not kidding…" His face turned a brilliant, atrocious shade of red and he tried to tuck his chin and get out of the hold. He stomped Sherlock's arch hard enough to break several bones in his attacker's right foot, then John began to drool and he was dead weight in Sherlock's arms.

He awakens, choking and wheezing, lying on the floor of this strange room with an enormously fat and bald middle-aged man standing over him poking at him with a cane. "I won't 'ave no drunks in here. You wanna sleep, you gotta pay. Times up. Your friend turned in his key, so you 'ave to go. Got people in at six and got to clean up this mess. "

John scrabbled around disoriented and groggy. He leapt to his feet when he saw the violin case was gone. He flung open the door and screamed, "Sherlock? Sherlock?" He took off into the rain and ran less than a block before he realized he has no hope of finding him. He stands there at the end of the mews, looking up and down the street, and his shoulders slumped. The picture of dejection, John doesn't know what to do with himself. He just stood there in the rain and closed his eyes.

He shook his head. He stands still and waits for one movement that would at least offer a clue to what direction he should walk. He studied the shadows carefully, waiting for any dark form to move and give away the location of someone watching him. The rain pounded but John ignored it, his eyes darting and his body still.

His phone beeped. He had a text message. He looked at it at once, assuming it's Sherlock, but the message is from another source of heartbreak. It's from one of his old army mates. It isn't clear exactly which one, but he recognized it's meaning at once. He read it over again and sighed.

Blocked Number - [Rhino - Bow rd MOOU FERODO Mighty Bite. Animal rescue.]

John forgot his worries about Sherlock. A friend was in trouble and has asked for his help. He smiled painfully and nodded. It was very good timing. Whatever the problem, he needed to feel useful and someone from his past still remembered that not so long ago, he'd been a very useful man. It was a sign that maybe he just made a fool of himself, but not everyone he ever knew considered him to be a fool.

There were only seven people on earth who would ever refer to him as the Sumatra Rhino. He looked at his watch, it was just half past two and the Tube was closed. He had to walk three blocks before he found a taxi. He was let off at Bow Road Station, and walked east, searching for the rendezvous location. He curses that he handed his weapon to Molly.

John finds the words 'IRATE MUNCH FERODO' on an overpass train track. He looked around and to his left saw a police station and wondered if someone needed bail. He shook his head and walked under the trestle and spotted a royal blue sandwich shop called 'Mighty Bite'. He crossed the street with a grin and peeks through the one inch metal grate but the interior is only lit by a Pepsi machine. The shop was empty.

Next door, The Little Driver is closed but still has a customer or two straggling out the door drunkenly. Beyond that the Texaco petrol station had business. The lights were glaring in the night and it seemed like a welcoming sight in this rain that feels like ice. The temperature was still falling and John is shaking in misery. The day was warm, but now full blown autumn seems determined to cut across London in one night. The trees are giving up their leaves quickly in the rain and wind. John turned around and slowly surveyed the area.

His eyes again fall on the train overpass and from this direction, facing west, he found his 'MOOU FERODO'. He walks into the arched pedestrian pass through and uses it as shelter against the rain. He leans his back up against the dry brick and watches in both directions from the darkness. It doesn't take long. From the lights bleeding from Texaco he spots a tall man in a long dark coat with short clipped grey hair and two coffees balanced in one hand.

John kicks off the bricks and stands respectfully at attention, waiting for the man to acknowledge him. The man cocks his head slightly. "Never could stay out of trouble, Rhino. Hope I didn't interrupt your fun. You salute me, boy, and you'll be wearing this coffee. Here. Black, scalding and old as road tar, just how you like it. Knew you'd be along any minute," the older man says in an impossibly deep baritone, with a gruff cultured inflection.

John relaxed and nodded, accepting the hot beverage and doing a quick survey of his friend and former commanding officer. "Hello, Rat. Been a while."

The man looked at him quickly from toe to head. He shook his head and his eyes darted through the night, watchful and under stress, but masking it as disgust, "So, got yourself shot. Thought I taught you better than that. Can't leave you alone for five minutes."

John clears his throat twice before speaking. "It's what soldiers do. We get shot. Left for dead sometimes. You said you would never set foot in London again. Must be important."

"I always liked that about you. No need to stand on ceremony, just bloody the knuckles right away. That looks fresh by the way," the man said, looking at john's hand, obviously amused.

A shiver of familiarity zings John's spine and he sipped the scalding tar, wincing in pleasure. "It is fresh. This coffee on the other hand was probably what killed the dinosaurs. God it tastes good. Ta. So, what have we got? You called. Here I am. What could possibly be so important that 'The Giant Rat of Sumatra' could break his own rules and request a meeting a half-click from a London police station?"

"It seems my babies have been fishing and they got snagged in a rather large drag net. You can start by explaining your association with Sherlock Holmes and clarify to me why he pretended to be dead to keep you alive?" The Rat said with pleasant concern as if inquiring about John's favorite restaurant.

"How could you possibly…"

"Rhino. I'm injured. You have hurt my feelings. You have forgotten me, haven't you?" he cuts in as if scolding a small child.

"Feelings?" John chirps with a staccato laugh. "I have been reliably informed you don't have any, Rat, old pal."

The Rat shrugs, "I'm also an artful liar. Tell me, how did you become rather publicly associated with Sherlock Holmes? " he asked with a wink, a scathing twitch of his lips and pointed twist of his head.

John's eyes narrowed and he tilts his head searching the slate-coloured unfeeling eyes in the darkness. "Why is it any concern of yours?"

The Rat smiles slightly, it is lopsided and painfully familiar. He paces back and forth in the dry area provided by the trestle above. His coat swishes with every step and John is fascinated with the changing, aging lines of him. He's still beautiful, if slightly faded from the last few years. "Because I'd like to think we could get past our little fling and be of use to each other again. I need your help. It's personal. It's complicated and it's probably going to get us both killed in the end. My advice would be to walk away and tell me to sod off, but I could use some help. I'm getting old and still playing a young man's game. It would be like old times. Except, without the backing of any tanks, aircraft or other conscripted warm bodies to fetch us coffee. It's going to be pure hell."

John grins broadly and his eyes soften, "I'm in."

The other man spins and shakes his head. "Just like that? Jesus, you should be sectioned. You know that, don't you?"

John swallows and takes a deep breath. "Yeah. Well, been planning a lead dinner for a year now, and I'm a bit hungry."

"Oh John, what did he do to you?" he sighs his disapproval.

John laughs but it isn't mirthful, instead it borders on bitter. "Nothing that hasn't happened before."

The tall man blinks then looks away. "I suppose that's true. We don't have a lot of time. Come with me, we have some curtains to draw. This place is crawling with cameras. Damn the British government and its entire little toad stool brigade."

"Yeah, CCTV. I feel so safe and happy, wish they would wipe my arse for me too. I hear from a trustworthy source that that is actually in the works. I can't wait for the wonders of such assistance. I actually know the British government, by the way. Had coffee with him last month."

His friend snorts, "Mycroft. I'd call him a bastard but I happen to know his parents were, in fact, married at the time of his conception. Can you still swim?"

"Why would I need to swim?" John asks, dropping his empty coffee cup in the rubbish bin. "You think the great flood is coming? How long has it been since you were here?" John holds his hand out into the streaming downpour. "This is just a little sprinkle. And I expect a full account of how you know Mycroft and Sherlock. That should be the highlight of my day."

"Well, I am about to arrange for your death, and if you can't swim, that might go badly. And we have bigger concerns right now than your boyfriend troubles. How long has it been since you laid eyes on Tiger?" The dry tone is normal and John takes no offence at not having a clue what the man's plans are.

"A long time. Since his discharge in fact. Why? Is he coming, too?" John inquires.

"He's been here a long time, Rhino. And he isn't on our side. Which is why you are about to very publicly commit suicide by jumping in the Thames. We need to do something spectacular to get you out of all this. So, first things first, then we are off to Switzerland. We can mollycock our mutual sorrows on the way."

"Wait. I'm going to what? Exactly?" John shifts his weight and stares at his former commanding officer and friend.

The Rat grins and winks. "Come on. We are heading to Baker Street. Going to go make use of that maudlin sissy note you've been composing. May as well let the last year of your pathetic life serve our purpose. Don't bring anything, you won't be needing it for a while. Still in?"

John considers it for a heartbeat then with a deep cleansing breath, "Going deep? All or nothing, huh? Like you?"

The man nods. "What it amounts to. Can't come back from dead you know. I know it's a lot to ask."

"It's fine, Ford. It's all fine. Cab?" John rushes out into the rain waving his arms and trying to get the driver to notice him.

The Rat raises his arm and the taxi pulls right in next to him without hesitation. He grins and holds the door open to an irritated John. "It's a gift."

"Go to bloody hell. Sir." John mumbles as he steps into the warmth of the dry cab and takes his seat.

* * *

_There is a overpass on Bow Road, near the police station with this graffiti written on it and a little blue eatery called the Mighty Bite.  There is also an old arched brick pedestrian pass-through that I could not resist using as a meeting spot like a door to John's past._


	6. The Science Of Apples

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rat explains his plan and why he came to London. John throws up.

The cab ride was quiet. The driver drove with such exaggerated care that he seemed like an old woman. John spoke in hushed tones of how he met Sherlock and what they did. He was pretty sure he wasn't conveying any new information but his friend listened intently. John spoke of Sherlock's personality and how until a few hours ago, he thought he'd died for him. He admitted that he'd somehow fallen in love with the man. He told him briefly of Molly and in general what a complete shambles his life had turned into.

He seemed to be discarding a lot of the tinsel and getting to the stickier bits of tree he'd avoided for so long. If he could have spoken this frankly to his therapist, the woman may have had a chance to help him. With Rat, there are no trust issues involved. He had trusted Rat with his life on countless occasions. John's heart may have been a little beaten up from time to time by the man, but in every other way, there was a bond between the two men that served to overthrow any fear John would have in opening up to Rat about things he could not manage to say to other people.

John stated events in the style of a debriefing and was careful to provide an honest analytical analysis of his experiences and state of mind, expecting no judgment or advice and receiving exactly what he anticipated. Rat never took his eyes off John, mumbling an encouraging something in his throat from time to time or nodding.

John described Sherlock, "He was a lot like you really, more brilliant, no offence, but that is probably why he and I hit it off so quickly. I never considered the similarities of him and me vs. you and I and I probably should have. Frankly, I think he was a lifeline and his need to be taken care of led me to misunderstand the dynamics of the friendship. I think that it was a one-sided fiasco."

The Rat raises his eyebrow in mild surprise as if to ask John if he's trying to downplay his story.

John looks down at his clasp hands. He meets the other man's eyes for a second, then looked out the window as he continueed, "He proved what he thinks of me, twice now, so your problem, no matter what the hell it is, came at a very opportune moment. I don't have anything here. It was all in my mind. I made a wrong turn with Sherlock somewhere and even what I found with Molly…well, it wasn't real, not all the way. I could carry on and fix that if I wanted, but I have issues and she would really be better off…without me. It would take a miracle for me to really trust her again, enough to move forward. Probably a gift to her if I leave it behind. I'm fine with what you're asking of me. There isn't much here for me. I know now that there never was. I don't belong here." On that last point, John was not as truthful as he should have been, but he was already determined to follow through on his word to Rat.

Deep cover meant leaving all he knew behind. It meant never again being John Watson. He would never again speak of this life. The Rat had told him once that making this choice had been very hard for him, but of course Rat had never detailed exactly why. John didn't feel it was difficult at all. He would feel guilty for not keeping his promise to Molly, but right now, whatever had brought this man to London, meant keeping a much older and weightier promise. It didn't matter what it was, John would never let this man down. He owed him his life and after all, Molly had lied. He would get word to her that mourning was not necessary, and she would move on. He imagined the relationship with Molly could have probably worked out in time, but Ford 'The Rat' Hall, had asked John for his help.

John knew he wasn't a jumper-wearing broken charity case in Rat's eyes. He was skilled and still vital to Rat or he wouldn't be here. It felt good to be himself and feel the rush of war again. There was no need for Rat to have concern that John Watson felt this was a sacrifice.

"You speak of him in past tense, like he's still dead."

"Well, as far as I'm concerned, right this minute. He may as well be, to me. I would have done anything, and I do mean anything to…just love him. Any terms would have been fine. Whatever he wanted. I might have even worn one of those stupid labels people like to throw around…for him. They were already making assumptions. Even the newspaper called me a confirmed bachelor."

"Too bad your Three-Continents persona had yet to be … jumped on," Rat said with his traditional pause for the double-entendre punch word.

John smirked, but let his friend's meaning go with a shake of the head and a good natured snort. He continued, " He basically told me I am useless and would just get in the way. It wouldn't be long before that would have eaten me up. Hours possibly." He sneered and shrugged as if what was at stake here was almost a favor to John.

"Does he know who you are?"

John takes a deep breath and shakes his head. "Most things I didn't have to tell him. Jesus, he could tell if I'd had a wank in the shower, but some things, he just never quite put together. I didn't talk about it. It is fatally ingrained to not talk about it to civilians. I would never talk about it to anyone but a brother. You know me better, Rat. "

"Of course, I wasn't questioning your discretion. He does have access to sensitive material, if my sources are reliable. " Rat inquires.

John paused, studying Rat for a second, curious about his sources on his former flat-mate. It was flattering that he seemed so well informed on John's life. John hadn't heard from him but once since he had been shot. He had no idea Rat had paid any attention after all this time. They had parted on ambiguous terms. Part of John's deep depression upon returning to London had occurred because it was more than a medical discharge in John's mind. He'd felt like he'd lost his family. He felt like he'd survived some terrible catastrophe in which everyone he cared about had perished, leaving him alone and trying to navigate in a world that no longer felt real to John.

People looked right past John here. They took him at face value and nobody suspected that the short, limping doctor might be the sort of man who could walk into hell with a smile and walk out with an army of the devil's minions following him. John had always had a way with people and his specialties were mediation, infiltration, conversion and wet work. Saving lives was always his preference, but John found the Hippocratic Oath did not interfere with his oath to queen and country. He never murdered a good guy and that meant he was preventing the loss of life by treating the disease rather than the symptoms. Sometimes, the cancer could be cut out to prevent its spread. The same was true of people and John had no problem with killing anyone whose existence was a cancer upon the world.

He nodded in agreement as he continued, " Sherlock was brilliant. So I have no idea what he did know or didn't. He trusted me more the night I met him than he did when he jumped off that bloody roof. His brother had my public records, but he never said a word to me if he knew more. I think he could have gotten the clearance, if he'd known to look. He seemed to know about everything else going on. But Sherlock's brother, well, he put a lot of trust in me…but I think it was because he didn't intimidate me…much. I thought a lot of him at one time. I can't say I trusted him, not after he sold Sherlock out. He didn't know at the time. But, it changed how I …I don't know, he's not particularly likable, but I had come to respect him. I doubt that can ever be fixed, and all this time, he watched me suffer. He could have kidnapped me and stopped all of this…it's a letdown when someone has your trust and…just blows you off. They both did that." John cleared his throat, careful to keep the sound of accusation toward Ford out of his tone, "Sherlock was the one person who I… of all the people. Even after he died, I trusted him." John shakes his head in confusion and looks into Rat's eyes. "I don't know when or why he stopped trusting me. But none of that matters anymore. Now, your turn. What has Tiger done this time?"

"Well, we have a whole lot of ground to cover there and we are almost to Baker Street. The down and dirty version is he's under private contract. He drifted for a while after all that stupid business. He was the best I ever trained. Better than you, in fact." Ford lifted his chin, not making light of John, simply stating a truth.

"No argument, Rat. He was a God. What they did to him, it was unforgivable," John said with disgust.

"The system, Rhino. Could have been any one of us."

"I watched it happen to him and then I came here and watched the same sort of thing happen to Sherlock. It makes me wonder why anyone bothers," John replies.

"We each have to find our own motive."

John gestured with his hand that he knew this lecture, as he spoke, "I know. Please tell me we can at least try to talk to Tiger. You said he's not on our side. I would rather take a bullet myself then have to take him out, Rat. He's still our brother."

Rat sighs and leans forward, "If you feel that way, just go on home, Rhino. See, I have talked to him. I thought he was our brother, but he proved he wasn't. He's under contract for a hit and when I found out who he was working for, I tried. Here's the thing. He was working for someone who you might recognize. He is in command of a rather extensive network of criminals. The organization is bleeding out and Tiger is getting somewhat wobbly in his management. Not unlike you, John, he floundered and someone tossed him a lifeline. I believe Tiger's former, now deceased, boss and friend referred to himself as a 'consulting criminal' from what I was told. Ring any bells?"

John's face blanches and the wind is sucked from his lungs. "Tiger was working for…Moriatry? God no. Oh my God. He was…sent to kill me?"

"Ding, ding, ding, you have correctly clipped the blue wire and diffused my first bomb." Rat sits back and chuckles.

"But that is who Sherlock is trying to find." John responded with an edge of panic creeping into his voice.

"One of them. He's found a fair number of those he has sought. It has been quite effective in creating chaos within this group. Sherlock isn't the only reason Moriarty's associates have found the transition to new leadership to be less than charming. But he has taken out some vital areas. Now Sherlock seeks Sebastian Moran. And Tiger by the tail is…"

"Guaranteed to fail," John automatically finishes the vaunting old joke Tiger had always said before contact. It wasn't particularly funny, due to the fact it was somewhat true. John realized he was now on the wrong side of his former brother and his former best-friend was also planning to confront Tiger, which made the joke clang with the tone of a bell on a sunken ship. "Oh God. Sherlock's going to get himself killed. He has no chance against him. He has no idea what Tiger can do. None at all." John leans forward, defeated and his abdominal muscles randomly quake in trepidation for Sherlock.

Sherlock is smart and lucky, but Tiger is hard, calm and the most singularly accurate shot in all contact situations ever presented. If Sherlock engages Tiger, Sherlock's life is simply on the count-down. John can't help but imagine Sherlock's head in Tiger's Trijicon Sniper Scope. John was familiar with Tiger's equipment having spotted for him regularly. The image made his gorge rise.

Just when John thinks he's out of Sherlock's FUBAR life, Rat is set to drag him into it again through a back door. John fights this emotional upheaval. He is evidently going off to save Sherlock, with or without Sherlock's consent or knowledge. He has to fight a brother in order to do that. It means there are terrible choices to be made and unfortunately any success or failure will have a very high price. John wonders why he isn't dead, because if Tiger had meant for John to be terminated, he knew that there was little chance he would still be breathing. John chuckled to himself, thinking of how he'd mourned a man who wasn't dead until he'd nearly volunteered to end Tiger's contract for him. John had undoubtedly cleaned the weapon and looked through the scope that was turned on him the day Sherlock jumped off St. Bart's.

For a strange moment, John imagined himself standing next to Tiger watching himself lined up for terminal contact. He wondered if Tiger would have whispered any regret or any kind of apology before pulling the trigger and watching his former spotter's head explode like a water balloon of red mist. John didn't actually hate the idea as much as he should have. If he had to die, at least he knew it wouldn't be a botched job. Seb was the best. John would have never felt a thing. Tiger prided himself on his quirky signature style. Most snipers prided themselves on killing with a single shot. Seb usually took two. Both were instant kill shots, but he had a signature.

Head. Heart.

Tiger would never pretermit a target to show off, but he was a patient man and he had an uncanny ability to hit a man and spin him with the impact so that he could take his redundant second shot before the body hit the ground. Killing had long ago lost the challenge. That second signature shot, was what kept the job entertaining for Seb.

John had liked the fact that what he truly offered was a pain free unknown death. The subject didn't crumble to the pavement in agony, knowing he was about to die. They literally were going about their business one moment and in the second and a half it took for their body to fall, they had stopped consciousness before they tumbled. John had examined Tiger's work and called it art. It may have left an unpleasant corpse for the family to deal with, but for the target, it was a gift. John knew a lot about unpleasant death. He wouldn't have minded death at the hand of such an artist and Tiger would have given John his very best effort.

The feeling of calm acceptance does not extend the forgiveness for Tiger to make art of Sherlock. If Sherlock were to be found with Seb's signature, God or not, John would win. Nothing would ever protect him because John rarely felt the need for wrath, but Sherlock had already proven that he could draw that emotion from John. John was back on the job. John would find some way to protect his idiot-boffin.

"Yes, the dimwitted fool thinks he can out think God and he's playing with matches in an ordnance bunker. Smart rarely meets wise."

"We have to stop him. Rat, we have to…I can't explain…but Sherlock is—"

"Not as far from you mind or your heart as you claim, John. I hoped you still cared enough to help me intervene on his behalf. I did think you would be a bit more of a recruitment challenge considering what it meant. I had all sorts of grand words to talk you into this adventure. Perhaps you missed me more than you care to admit as well."

"You are a bloody prat, and I'd have to be mad to miss you. So get on with it, you and your superior grin have more you want to say. Go on then, no need to relish it. Spit it out."

Rat smiles like a cat with a mouse soufflé on Wedgewood china. "And now for the next little bomb. Of course we are going to save that idiot. Won't be the first time I have stepped in to help him, not that he knows about it, but it seems he is a trouble magnet. Care to guess why I would be interested in Sherlock Holmes? Interested enough to come to London? You know my rule. Why now, after so many years away?"

John tilts his head and looks confused. "I don't understand. You're here for Sherlock? I thought…never mind. What are you saying? You came to London, because of Sherlock Holmes?"

"And you, but yes. Look at me, John. Really look."

John looked at him shaking his head. "I don't see what you mean."

"You see, but you do not observe. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Before I became Ford Hall, the Giant Rat of Sumatra, I had another name, another life. I had to leave that life and my two young sons. I couldn't protect them from the things I had become involved with. So I did what I had to do, to protect the people I cared about. "

John looked up. The hints were all there and John knew he should be making a connection, but something was misfiring in his mind. "You…had children?" he asked, finding the idea almost comical. He couldn't imagine Ford Hall in a normal, mundane life, running to the market to pick up…milk. "No." John can hear his heart pounding as if he's revving up for a firefight.

Rat was trying ineffectually to hide his merriment, his lips kept twisting and his eyes sparkled at his delight in John's prolonged discomposure." I was Sir Sherrinford Hallcroft Malcolm Sherlock Holmes, KBE. You still address me as Commander. It wasn't a rank, John. It was a sentiment. Nobody calls me Major Hall, " he laughed at John's blank face and his mouth hanging open, "Imagine my surprise when I saw that the two of you had formed an…acquaintance?"

"Bollocks. No. Please, God no. Ford Hall. Of course. Perfect. That is absolutely…my disaster of a life in triplicate. Dot the tees and cross the eyes I am…Going to throw up now," John said, actually turning slightly green.

The Rat roared with laughter, earning a watchful glance from the driver who happened to pull into Baker Street and stop the cab just at this time. John bailed out and while the cab fare was settled, John made use of the rainy sidewalk, decorating it with the tarry contents of his stomach. His former commander and father of his former flat-mate was still laughing as he slapped John on the back and told him he must have developed a weak stomach for good coffee.

When recovered, John opened the door to 221b and his friend hesitated. Rather than walking in he pulled his phone from his pocket and seemed to send a text. "Problem?" John asked.

"My elder son and his little toys. Jamming them. That should take care of it." He smiled and stepped inside.

"You can do that? That isn't a mobile phone, is it?" John said peeking at the device upside down.

He made a throaty sound, "It does that too. That's just one of its many fine features. Lots of wizards in the international game, Rhino. No limit to what you can buy, if you know who to speak to. This, developed by a kid in Norway. Sixteen years old and has to set his appointments for meetings with the world's masterminds around his cross-country ski practice and his school activity schedule. I was there in June and his parents invited all his new friends to dinner. Sat down for a lovely salmon with a drug dealer from Mexico, a GSG9 agent and a pirate Captain from Somalia. I think if we could get this kid to have a party, NATO could take lessons. Pleasant bunch of people, Norwegians."

"I am flabbergasted to know that, considering what we just discovered. About two people I have had rather close personal relationships with…being related. But, we are discussing, the attributes of Norway? I hear the weather there is very nice for like ten days a year. By all means, Sir Sherrinford Holmes, do tell me more. My nightmares were getting pretty dull. Don't you want to liven them up with any more abominable tidbits? You seem in particularly emetic form this evening. "John said in a low tone, he stomped up the stairs, unlocked the door to his flat and waved Rat in.

"He put Angry Birds on it for me too," Rat went on as if John hadn't spoken. " I like that game. I keep in touch with the boy on World of Warcraft. And you just discovered it, I have known of your interesting association for some time. Were you lovers, you and my son?" Rat asked the last part in the same bored tone he'd discussed Angry Birds.

"What? No. I was serial-dating women, after you. You know what I can be like. I thought it was headed there, but he … no. I don't actually date men, you know. You and I…just never mind, I am not discussing this. No, we were defiantly not lovers, thank you."

"I see. So it wouldn't be an impropriety if I were to kiss you. After you brush your teeth, of course." His eyes looked John up and down lustily.

"Jesus, don't you dare start this again."

Rat blinks and looks slightly offended. "Why the hell not? I've missed you."

"No, because it always starts out nice, then it ends with me alone, and you …disappearing. Last time was not good. I nearly died."

"You may die tonight if this shite doesn't all go well. And I didn't leave you. You went out and got yourself shot."

"Yeah. That's true. All my fault there. Thanks for all the cards and well wishes, by the way."

Rat looks at him as if John has lost his mind. "Know what happened to the guy who shot you?"

"Don't even know who it was, Rat." John said, wrinkling his forehead.

There is that cat-like smile again, eyes squinting in mirth, voice a smooth purr, so much like Sherlock it makes John feel lightheaded. "I sent you a wallet."

"Six months later. Yeah, you did. No card, just a wallet. Still have it." John pulls it out of his pocket. "Very nice. Thank you. Water repellant and everything"

"You didn't pay attention. What kind of leather is it?"

John looks at it and his face goes dark. His eyes glassed over as he looked at his friend and realized what he was saying. "There it is, more nightmares," John said as his eyes roll upward, leaving only the whites visible.

"Tanned it myself. Stinky business…tanning." The smile grows sinister, "That reminds me, where is Mr. Fellows? Always pay my respects." Ford gestured to the mantle.

"You mean the skull? You know who he is? He has a name? Sherlock appropriated him. Took that with him. Left me behind. I was just filling in for…Mr. Fellows? Wait, how would you know where it sat? Jesus, you have been here. You have been in this flat?" John flops in his chair, unable to process any more fun Holmes-trivia whilst standing.

"Oh. Yes. Several times in fact. Should be obvious I think. I did just scramble all your security cameras. I couldn't have cracked their frequency codes that quickly otherwise, now could I? Sorry. Pity that, about Fellows I mean. I was hoping to speak with him."

"Yes. Tragic. I personally blubbered like a baby at his departure," John said, deadpanning his sarcasm.

Rat steps toward the mantle and swipes his finger at the spot the skull had occupied. "Missed him by a few hours. You should dust on occasion, John. Your sinuses would appreciate the effort. Mr. Fellows was one of my first kills. Very nice man. He was a traitor, of course. But, he was a nice traitor. Brought him home to Sherlock when he was just a little bit of a scamp. His mother scolded me, but Sherlock loved him right away. Insisted he stay in his room. Mycroft was afraid of the thing, but not Sherlock. He always did take after me. Mummy dear ruined Mycroft, but Sherlock, he was something special. Still is. As you seem to have … discovered?" he turns to John, and his left eyebrow rose to punctuate the last word.

John was sitting in his chair, his head propped on his fist. His eyes dart around the flat and back to his guest.

" Of course I have been here. But my son's little toys are apparently not as secure as he believes them to be, so I have been checking in on you from time to time. Long distance. Anyway, you need to finish your note while I arrange your suicide, my boy. Snap to it, we don't have all night." He says texting rapidly as he paced.

John returned a few minutes later with the note in his hand. Rat has disappeared, but before John has had time to process all the bad things an unattended Rat might cause, he reappears in the sitting room and takes a seat in Sherlock's chair. His cloths are freshly pressed and dry, having hung in Sherlock's closet for the last year.

John does a double take. "It's official. Weirdest day of my life."

"You should get busy writing and stop wasting time admiring my arse. Three hours and I have no intention of spending it growing puckered when there are perfectly suitable dry garments in you little shrine back there. He was never dead and I have not blasphemed his sacred belongings. You should change too. You'll end up catching your death. May as well be comfortable." Rat stated as he continued to type on his phone-like object.

John doesn't say a word. He gets up, goes upstairs and changes his clothes. He returns to his chair and props the note on a book and tries to figure out what else he can say. He can't think as Ford moves around the kitchen, not needing to ask where the cups are or where he keeps the tea. John reminds himself, he has been here before.

"So, when you visited before? Was that before or after Sherlock…didn't die?" John manages to sound calm but he keeps touching his mouth in irritation.

"Both." Rat answers, setting one cup of tea beside John and blowing on his own cup before sipping it.

"But you didn't think to say hello. Not even after?" John picks up the cup and holds it close to his lips, waiting for an answer.

"I did say hello once, after. Perhaps you don't remember. I had never seen you so…affected by drinking. I brought you home. Saw to your wounds. It was only four of them, just kids really. I didn't permanently injure them. I didn't return after that." He said calmly but wouldn't meet John's eyes. His index finger circled the rim of the cup. He held the cup in his other hand, palm on the bottom, thumb through the handle.

"I would have liked your company."

"I don't think so, John," he said quietly. Ford blinked several times, set the cup aside and pulled John's computer into his lap.

John contemplated what he meant by that statement but gave up trying to guess. Ford would tell him when he wanted him to know. John settled down and quickly finished his task.

**_I am sorry to anyone who is hurt, but I have made this choice because as a physician, I know the early signs of a mind losing its battle for sanity. I have to face that the odds of winning this fight are slim and I can't allow myself to take chances that the honored profession of Psychiatric Medicine has any hope of securing any useful future for me. I am too dangerous to allow myself to harm someone I care for, so with this apparent prospect looming, I know I am making the right choice. If I were to stand in front of a bullet for any one of you, I would be a hero. I am doing that. I know how to prevent the bullet from ever being fired. Just know, I am happy and I don't do this out of any wish to cause sorrow._ **

**_Molly, I know you will probably take this hard. You made me happy, and I will carry my memories of you with me for all time. I hope you move on quickly and shine that brilliant light of yours on someone who deserves it._ **

**_Sherlock Holmes, I'm coming for you. Call me your guardian angel, you arrogant sod._ **

**_Why is love like a Rhino?_ **

**_Its short sighted, thick skinned, ready to charge and woe be to the fool who gets in its way._ **

**_All my love,_ **

**_Captain John 'Rhino' Hamish Watson, SMO, RAMC , 5th Northumberland Fusiliers_ **

John finishes his note and hands it to Ford. He goes to make fresh tea while The Rat reads it for approval.

"You ended your suicide note…with a joke?"

"Sure. You always say, leave them laughing. And the suicide is a joke, hopefully, if my decrepit old wanker of a commanding officer doesn't muck it up too much, so why not," John said with a shrug and a grin that indicated he is resigned to this plan and now he's just going to go into his classic approach of soldier-on-a-lark mode.

"I have missed you. You always made me laugh, you fun-sized prat."

"Short jokes? I am doing this, why, again? Now, to the surviving part. Any actual plans for that or should I just order a bouquet?"

"Your faith in me is warming my heart. You were dive-certified, right?"

"Of course. But that was years ago. Not sure I will make it believable if I am wearing a wet suit and tanks," John replied, brows furrowed in confused skepticism.

"Not exactly. There is a tow rope. The tanks will be on that. Now, what happens in dear old London when a jumper ends his sorrows?"

John shrugged, and said, "People search for them, try to save them?"

"Yes, but they only search down-current. Here's how this will work…"

* * *

_**If you have forgiven me for the' why' John jumped in the Thames and upset everyone, you may feel free to review. If you haven't forgiven me, you may still feel free to review. Thank you all for your lovely comments.** _


	7. Deep Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John jumps off Waterloo Bridge. It goes as well as any half-arsed Holmes plan can be expected to play out.

So it came to pass in the year of sorrows that John Watson stands trembling in the rising sun on Waterloo Bridge before three students with a video phone and his two Holmesian-directed shadows sprinting toward him. It has been a night that would make history, set in the record books of merry England as the largest temperature drop ever recorded overnight. Watson has no idea the havoc his death is about to create, he only knows he's about to embark upon the most singularly stupid happening of his life.

He slips the cable tow, left in place by another unknown person and supposedly attached to a boat up the river, standing by, over his boot and prays the damned thing doesn't yank his foot off. If the boat operator doesn't manage to amputate his foot in his initial burst of power, and he doesn't get tangled or impale himself on hidden debris and the tanks don't bash his head in as they rush toward him sliding unrestrained down the accelerating metal cable of death, he might live. Of course that is assuming that he can stay underwater, against the current and the boat speed, right himself, figure out how to ride the cable underwater, while trying to work an air tank, in the murk, he's never laid eyes on, before he drowns and they reel him in like a dead sea-turtle.

Provided all those things fail to kill him, he has hypothermia, and probable pathogen borne infection to contemplate, while praying it's a low chemical load day and that nobody dumped anything near the river that will cost him his eyes or all his skin for that matter. Swimming in the Thames was a bad idea, no matter how confidently a Holmes said it would work.

John mumbles under his breath, speaking to the invisible legends of fate in his last probable one-sided conversation, pretty sure he's about to learn all the answers of man's quest to look beyond the veil. "Yeah, I get it, God. Death by Holmes is my, set in stone, fate. Try not to make it hurt, and I promise God, the next suicide note, I will take much more seriously. No jokes, I swear. Okay. Well, I do hate this by the way, just in case you care."

He glances out upon London, snaps a smart salute, as a farewell to Rat, should this go horribly as he expects it to, and then Molly and Sherlock firmly fixed in his mind, he plunged forward.

He manages to hit the frigid water in rescue diver position, butt first and sinking. It is only after he has managed to get a firm grip on the cable and get it well positioned in the arch of his foot, that he has a bit of hope. The tank is there within thirty seconds and does not kill him on impact and he actually has his first breath of compressed air before he'd begun praying to Sherlock, Shiva and the Flying Spaghetti Monster to let him live.

'This insanity might actually work' he is thinking when he feels the tug of further acceleration jerk painfully at his foot and now he begins rotating. Quickly he has lost control and is spiraling and trapped by the tanks and cable. The new problem causes drift, which knocks him into the side of a bridge pylon with enough force to damage a tank and break his ribs, thus pushing the regulator mouthpiece out of his mouth. The pain reflex causes him to suck water into his lungs and now he's choking and he can't get his head above water. If he lets go to try to replace the mouthpiece between his teeth, he's going to lose his tentative grip on the cable. He has no idea how much time has passed or if it's safe to surface.

He knows his only option is to let go and hope that he can make it to the bank before the current drags him right back to the rescue boats. That would be an automatic section. NHS would pull his medical license and he'd sit in a cell with a little paper cup of colorful drugs he would no longer remember the name of, while Sherlock dies again. No, he won't let go.

John holds on as long as he can, but he knows his limits and he finally makes the decision to give up on the plan and improvise as best he can. He's far enough away by now he ought to be able to reach one bank or the other. The water rushing past feels like the enemy, and it is trying to find a way into his shrieking chest. He lets go, expecting to be carried away.

Theoretically, letting go was the wise choice, unfortunately the random guest list he'd invoked in prayer were not on the same page and he struggles desperately and without any benefit to detach himself from the death cable.

Now his lungs have taken over command and all he can think of is getting a breath of air. His abdomen is involuntarily convulsing and trying to override his brain that is chanting 'don't breathe'. The struggle is causing pain to shoot through him from the fractured ribs. He makes a valiant effort to surface and manages one precious lung expanse of beautiful cold air. His head has broken the surface, which aligns him precisely with an oncoming boat. He hears the propeller just before he hears a loud noise.

"What was…"

John knows there is a lot of activity going on and someone is kissing him as he spews something burnt, oily and nasty like a frigid volcano. Everything hurts and something is determined to shove at least one of his broken ribs into his lungs. He shoves the kisser aside and vomits, nearly aspirates before hands guide him to lie on his side and still there is more erupting from him. His pain level is so great that he feels his bowels and bladder release and he doesn't care in the least.

He assesses his condition as best he can and grabs the kissing man, who is of course Rat, by the front of his shirt and hisses in short broken syllables, "CPR is over. Share your Morphine. Now! May go into shock, head injury, internal bleeding possible. Watch my pressure."

Rat nods and moves in slow motion to John's pain filled mind. He feels a stick and there are a few more seconds of agony before he feels the pain begin to ease enough that he can think straight.

Rat's eyes are wide and he is out of breath. "Just relax, I've done this a time or two."

"That could have gone better. This is drowning, complicates a field injury." John manages to get out between coughing and choking.

"What else?"

"Oxygen. Warm me up slowly. Check my pupils. If one blows, you need to get me to … hospital."

He closes his eyes just for a moment, just to rest for a second and thank whatever answered that he's still breathing.

He awakens bundled up, wrapped much like a cocoon, warm, dry, and naked. "It's about damned time, Rhino. You made a mess of that. Heart stopped. Mine nearly and yours did."

"Ahh. They had an AED on that garbage scow?" John rasps in the direction of the voice. He can barely see in the dim light, with one eye only, willing to open and focus.

"Not exactly. We made do with what we had."

"Jesus. Did you restart my heart with…"

"Jumper cables." Rat says with a wink.

"Yes. That would explain the burns. " John says peeping at his chest in disgust.

"Told you it would work," Rat says, as if a near death experience for John had been in the plan all along. Disney adventures had nothing on Ford Hall, the Giant Rat of Sumatra and zombie dead father of the zombie dead love of his life.

Now John is among the walking dead, too, and it felt like there had been a mistake because post-mortem exams, conducted whilst one was alive, could not hurt much more than he did at this time. John tried to move and grunted in pain. "Jesus, what did you do? Feel like I was hit by a train."

"May have miscalculated a little, but it worked out fine. Well, except for you getting hit by a boat. Sorry about that," Rat says as if he's lightly trampled a toe by mistake.

"You call this a success? I think not. Failing to factor in the bridge structure may have been a slight bloody oversight too. Started off fine, then someone hit the throttle and I was spinning like fish bait out there and met up with a pylon hard enough to hope I don't get sued for intentional structural failure in a few years. Couldn't get untangled and then took a beam from the Matilda Briggs." John grouched satisfyingly. He and Rat had a long standing joke about their excruciating time spent on a ship of that name."You _would_ call that a good outcome."

"Yes. I do. You're here, alive to bitch another day. Worked out…swimmingly."

"You half-witted, cockeyed son of a—"

"Ah, ah. Language, my dear," The Rat says, rolling his eyes with mock offence.

John glares at him, closing his mouth and yet conveying every bad word he'd ever learned just as clearly with his expression alone.

Rat laughed in a relieved, slightly hysterical way, and admonished, "Careful, your pretty face could get stuck that way. And you'll never graduate to 'Four-Continents Watson,' unless you significantly lower your standards."

"I can tell how worried about my face you were when you came up with the plan to slam me into a bridge…and a boat." John grumbles then winces. "Where the hell am I anyway? And why do I smell like garlic?"

"France. We had to smuggle you in as cargo, due to the unfortunate difficulty of you not currently resembling your fake passport. No need to thank me, I don't mind a little detour. Your company is well worth any trouble you have been."

"Wait, what? How long have I been out?"

"Two days. But, not to worry, we'll catch up. I know where he's headed. You made the news, by the way. BBC2 did a _lie_ -umentary all about you and Sherlock, solving crimes, tragic lovers, dead before your time. Blah, Blah, Blah. It was quite moving," he says, purposefully crossing his eyes to convey that it was probably ghastly and sentimental twaddle.

"Okay, good. That's good. I'm..dead then? Officially?" John asks, ignoring how many shades of tits up and gutted he is discovering as his thoughts jump first to Molly and how she must feel right now. Mrs. Hudson would cry and he deserved to hurt this bad for making that dear woman cry. Greg would get drunk, probably tell everyone what a stupid git John Hamish Watson was, then get weepy and maudlin. That's what he'd done when Sherlock died. Strangely, when he imagines what Sherlock must be thinking, he smirks with satisfaction.

"You are now without a name, a country, or any taxation worries. Taxes are much more certain than death in this instance, yes? How does it feel to be nobody?"

"I'm bandaged. Did you take me to a doctor then? Feels like torture. Guess that Jadda in Bagdad told the truth? I am officially burning in hell…no surprise who my reaper turns out to be," John says with a slight cough.

"Thank you. About time you picked up on my secret agenda. I'm only an apprentice reaper. Haven't earned my big scary sickle yet. I'll expect a gift upon graduation. Of course I took you to a doctor. You had a head injury. Only the best for my babies. Of course, he was not used to dealing with such small clients, had a bit of trouble calculating the dosages, but we got it all settled."

"Short jokes again or…no. What kind of doctor?"

"Oh, he had lots of awards and such on his wall. He was a very good one, I assure you."

"Uh huh? Did he leave any instructions?'

"Yes. I have followed them to the letter." Rat pulls out a slip of paper.

John looks at the heading. "It's in French."

"Of course. We are in their country."

John doesn't read French, but two words stand out after the doctor's name and he quickly figures out what they mean. "Chirugien veterinaire?"

The Rat sighs, face blank daring John to complain. "Yes."

"You took me to a veterinary surgeon?" John asks in bewildered fury.

The rat shrugs. "Told him you were a Rhino. A very small, Sumatran Rhino. It's written right there. Had to make his file look official, the French government is quite strict on its tax filings. He was rather skilled. Won't even be much of a scar."

"I got stiches?"

"Well we couldn't very well remove your spleen without them."

"You had a veterinarian…remove my spleen? Jesus…What the hell was I thinking?"

"Well, not all of it. He's an animal surgeon not a plague doctor. He didn't wear one of those pointy-nosed masks or anything. Cutting edge facility, I assure you. Even washed his hands. Call it more of a spleen repair. I'm just glad you are still thinking at all. Your skull will heal, have to be careful for a while. He was most concerned the brain swelling would affect your short term memory, but you're a tough little thing, Always have been. "

John closes his eyes and gently feels his scalp wrapped in far too much gauze. "He had no back up blood supply. I could have bled to death. God. Please tell me you did not have a horse doctor do brain surgery on me?"

"No. Of course not. It was unnecessary. You responded to the…"

"How did I not see it? I have got to be stupid. How did I miss that you are…without doubt…related to Sherlock Holmes? God, he's just like you," John says with annoyance and frustration.

Rat blushes in pleasure. A small melancholy smile appears and his eyes sparkle. "Thank you. You have no idea what it means to be able to have one person with whom I can speak of my sons again. To be told by someone that perhaps the small amount of time I had with them may have mattered in some trivial way. I know all the facts about them, but oh, to speak to someone who actually cares about them and knows tiny details only a loved one could. To step back through that door. You have no idea. You just can't conceive what it means. I have mourned not being part of their lives all these years and…"he trails off as if he can't quite finish the thought.

John waited for him to continue. He hadn't meant the statement as a commendation yet Rat's reaction broke John's heart, just a slight bit; he'd taken him to an animal doctor, after all. John pictured what it would be like to love something and never be able to tell them. He may not have lived that exact torment, but he could empathize.

He abstractly pictured what it would be like to go back to find Molly married. For a second he considered what it would feel like to see her pregnant with another man's child. It would be a bit like a second death. They hadn't spoken of it for a while, but there had been a couple of times that it had slipped casually into discussion. He had to admit that fatherhood had crossed his mind when he'd decided to propose.

He couldn't help but dream of such things. He wasn't sure there would be another chance. Live or die, he knew who he wanted to spend his life with. Molly had been his choice only because the other choice had been taken away. He couldn't say he felt he was settling for second best, but without Sherlock, he'd allowed his dreams to morph into new more comfortably traditional places and his heart felt split. He could not be without Sherlock if allowed the option any time in the future, but he wasn't sure he wanted to be without Molly. He'd made this insane decision to go with Rat on the fly, without really weighing his options.

He had not yet resolved that there was no going back. He is dead to that life now and he is just now hearing the first whispers of the grief for those insignificant everyday visions and modestly normal hopes. Truth is dawning on him that all those dreams were effectively dead with him.

Sherlock's words bear new light as John steps into the shoes of a man with no identity. He now exists outside his own life. He has no sister, no friends who will open their arms to him and acknowledge they know him. He isn't an official doctor now. He has the knowledge, but other than the desperate, who would he practice his craft upon? All those years of dues and sacrifice have just evaporated. Yes, it opens him up to a kind of freedom most people think they would want. It sounds like romance and adventure. He'd almost worshiped Ford like a super-hero fan.

Ford never bemoaned his old life. He seemed like a lucky, foot-loose, adventurous movie star come to life. That was what he wanted everyone to see. The actuality didn't look so pretty. It didn't even look real from this side of the lens.

John had wanted to be a movie star when he was young. He was going through that burn-out, rebel-against-your-parents, school-is-useless stage. There was a film crew in a neighboring town all the way from Hollywood. They were filming a romantic comedy set in medieval times. He'd run away and confidently offered his services. They had turned him down, of course, but he had shown up every day and hung around, just in the director's line of sight without being obtrusive. At the end of every day, he'd waited patiently outside, ignoring the dazzling actors and the chance to get one to sign a piece of paper to say he'd met a movie star who would forget him two seconds later.

The first day the director ignored him. As he left the main gate, John asked for his autograph. The director narrowed his eyes but complied obviously a little flattered, but not fooled by the kid who had shown his arrogance thinking he could walk on and be of any use to important people. The next day John arrived with a notebook and spent the day watching and scribbling. Again he asks for the director's autograph. He'd scrawled his name in John's notebook but in a less friendly way.

Every day he did this and finally after a week the man couldn't stand it any longer and had demanded to know what the heck the kid thought he was doing. John had smiled and said that he could learn a lot even if he didn't get to work on the set. "I'm studying you, sir."

"To what end? I told you, no."

"Yes, sir. But, so long as I'm not bothering you, I can still learn from you," John had said quietly.

"Oh really? So, what have you learned from way over there?" the director had asked making it plain that he thought John was a snot-nosed prat.

"Monday I learned that people bow and cater to you because you are the most important person here."

The director snorted, "Well, that was a waste of thirty seconds." He turned to go.

John kept pace with him and said clearly but in a much lower tone, "But, I also learned that they hide things from you because they don't want to look bad in your eyes. And that leads to a lot of stupid delays and mistakes while everyone rushes around passing blame instead of doing their job. That's stressful for you and you have every right to yell, but it just makes them all act that way more."

The director stopped. "Still not very impressed, but at least your truthful. What else do you have jotted down there?"

"You like your coffee with two creams and one sugar."

"So? Everyone on this set knows that." he says as if he's lost interest again.

"Yes. So why do you have to ask for them to bring it to you. You hate it cold and you don't order anything different, but they stand around and wait for you to ask. You should have hot coffee by your chair at all times, whether you drink it or not. But you don't ask them to do that. They make you wait."

The man tilted his head and slipped his hands in his back pocket. "What do you learn from that?"

"I learned that you put up with a lot and ignore the games they play with you, because you know what is more important. You pick what you get mad about."

The director's eyebrows shot up. "That's not so bad. I do. I also admit when I've missed something. Be here, Monday."

John had been hired and even been used as an extra in the movie. His torso could be seen walking by the speakers three times and his darkened head was part of the audience during a rousing speech given by the protagonist of the film. The thing is, it had changed the way he watched movies. He'd always loved the adventure and the rousing fights when swords clashed and dragons were battled. Being on the other side of the camera, seeing the fights looking like a ridiculous dance rather than danger had spoiled their mystique for him. To this day, he picked apart the fantastic moves and gym class antics of movie fights.

He'd never been able to shake the tarnish of that enlightening summer. The Rat had been John's movie star for so long he could barely recall a time when he didn't look up to him. Even when things had gone on between them that John didn't regret - but hadn't been prepared for - he'd never really seen Ford Hall as a man. He'd been a real life version of James Bond, Captain Kirk, and Rambo all wrapped up in an eccentric comedian.

John held his breath as all the magic bled away and he really looked at the man sitting beside him. His eyes still looked like ash as if he could burn the world down and never show a second's regret. His face had moved south slightly and now, in his early sixties, the first puckers of jowls could be discerned. He was still magnificent, but in the same way as a Lion who is days from losing his place in the pride he had built and fathered.

He was a lonely man who would no longer fit into normal society and it wasn't inconceivable that he might end up some unknown homeless scarecrow reeking of mouthwash and eating from rubbish bins if he didn't find himself that last high-noon gunfight to make quick work of his whispered deeds turned legend among a select few who knew more of him than they actually knew him.

Where had he spent last Christmas? When was the last time someone sung happy birthday to him? What will become of him in a few years, when he's aged beyond this life of battle and wits and stoic lonely searches for people who needed to stop existing? What happens to him when he can't run any longer?

He thought of Sherlock growing up thinking his father was dead. He wonders how different the man he loved might have been if he'd had this man's guiding influence. John felt his chest physically hurt with understanding. Sherlock had suffered so much for this man's adventures and causes. But this other man, this father, and friend John has loved most of his adult life has inconspicuously suffered too.

Ford was not a man to be pitied. He'd never tolerate that. But John had been wrong about him and he now knew he had been wrong about Sherlock as well. Sherlock needed John, but he was taking the bullet, to protect John from ever becoming nobody. Sherlock had watched John Watson suffer and finally move on. He hadn't been pushing John away at all. He'd been offering him the only salvation he knew how to give.

Sherlock had become nobody for him.

John had treated Sherlock as if his sacrifice was no sacrifice, but a betrayal. John understood now how that must have hurt his best friend. John had said that he would always believe in Sherlock, but it wasn't true. He had forgotten his promise. He had been so focused on getting what he wanted, that he had never looked at it from Sherlock's point of view.

His vision blurred and he closed his eyes, then very quietly, John began to speak, "Sherlock's never spoken of you casually, other than to say you died, but he keeps a picture of you. I caught him in an odd mood one day, his birthday, a month or so after we met. He said he was older than his father now. That was the only time he blurted anything about you. He didn't show me the picture in his hand, I found it later during one of his danger-night flat-searches. You couldn't have been more than twenty or so. I never made the connection to you. When I got back to London, the past was strangely distant and painful. I killed a man to protect him after knowing Sherlock for thirty-six hours. That's how quickly he had earned my trust, despite all the terrible things others tried to say about him. He's easy to misunderstand, and I'm no exception. " John's eyes slit open and he finds Rat leaning very close, attention riveted and a tear threatening to escape with the next blink from his left eye.

John reaches out his hand and Rat takes it, encouraging John to continue with a slight squeeze.

John swallows and nods. "Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade told me once that Sherlock is a great man. He said he hoped one day that he'd be a good one as well. At that moment, I didn't know what to say, because he was the first one who had said something that didn't sound like a warning label for serial killers. The thing is, he doesn't have to be good, or well liked or a cheerful ball of levity. People don't hate him and fear him because he's damaged, and he is damaged, but that isn't why they are cruel to him."

John paused, wanting to say the right thing. " Ford, he's an honorable man. I swear to you, he is deeply an honorable man. They both are, if you want my honest opinion. That's what the ordinary wretches can't abide. They could never be him, and they hate him so much for it. He's beautiful and they want to destroy what they can never achieve. I should have told him that. At exactly the wrong time, I was one of them."

Ford's eyes narrow as if it's just dawned on him that John is possibly filtering his comments. "Not what you said two days ago. Why has your tune changed? Is it just because he's my son, or did you bribe an angel for a task of penance while you were checked out on me?" Ford asked. "You don't have to speak kindly of him for my sake. "

"Neither. Didn't get bribed and not saying it just for you. I didn't understand." John chuckles bitterly. He takes a painful deep breath and tries to keep himself alert. His voice is soft, contented and almost peaceful, " He wasn't trying to push me off a bridge when he said I couldn't go with him. He was trying to keep me… from jumping off one," John said with eyes drooping closed.

* * *

_Plague Doctors - were doctors who wore long bird masks fitted with nice smelling herbs during the outbreaks of the black death. Surpisingly the outfits of heavy oiled leather, mask, wide brimmed hat and goggles did offer some protection, not from the actual illness, but from the fleas that carried it, thus making the doctors seem almost magical._

_The Matilda Briggs is a ship used in an ACD Sherlock Holmes story._

_Deep cover is 'spy' for getting rid of your actual identity._

_Sherrinford Holmes was ACD's name for his main character before he settled on Sherlock_.


	8. The Language Of Birds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft contemplates the big picture and hears surprising news from Sherlock.

The Language of Birds.

**_"The Raven's house is built with reeds,- Sing woe, and alas is me! And the Raven's couch is spread with weeds, High on the hollow tree; And the Raven himself, telling his beads In penance for his past misdeeds, Upon the top I see."_ **

**_Thomas D'Arcy McGee_ **

Mycroft entered his Spartan office, his steps heavy with exhaustion and care-worn dark bags prominently tucked below his eyes. He took exactly twelve seconds to realize his security had been breached at some point during his absence. The comprehension brought a sigh of relief rather than irritation. It meant his brother had thus far not succumbed to his long practiced method of dealing with unpleasant circumstance.

Mycroft's assistance brought him a perfect cup of tea laced with his favorite single malt. "Beatrice," she said with a wink, informing him of the name she planned to use the next week.

"Thank you, Winstonia," he replied. It was a little game they played from when she had been a new recruit. On occasion, she came up with something so off-the-wall that he would fail to remember her weekly choice, but those slips were few and far between. She must have taken pity on him this week, choosing something so lovely.

Mycroft sipped the tea and let the peaceful moment wash through his mind. Mycroft hated to expect the worst of Sherlock, but understanding had long ago whipped his hopeful and inexperienced prospects of his brother. He no longer held out hope that Sherlock would ever, ever develop a rational response to stress. His beliefs long ago morphed into a more realistic standard. Sherlock would be Sherlock, and Mycroft would have to mop his brother up from some disgusting situation.

Danger night protocol, grade-three surveillance, and even his willingness to be treated unbearably by his brother, rather than make any overt insistence that he behave, were all merely preemptive measures. Sherlock had proven repeatedly what his probable future would entail. The 'ice man' as he had of late been made aware was his most recent moniker, only hoped to prevent the inescapable for as long as possible.

Few people on this earth ever were allowed to suppose that Mycroft had a heart. Hearts were dismal overburdened liabilities. They were so easily broken but hard to mend. Mycroft had grown a bit lax under John Watson's helpful influence. John had represented a motive to excel far beyond any incentives Mycroft had ever been able to establish. John had become Sherlock's family.

Of course, Mycroft wasn't foolish enough to believe that Sherlock was not teetering upon the brink of the abyss since his own supposed death. Still, John's proverbial existence alone had kept Sherlock mindful of how far he let it run. John's relationship with Molly had nearly broken Sherlock. John's death was certain to leave but one Holmes to carry on the family.

God, he would have to get married soon and produce the next generation of the British government. Mycroft sighed and made a note for Winstonia to find him a suitably titled brood mare and see to the introductions. He wondered if he should plan eight or twelve dates before he could get down to the business of proposing.

He scanned the file his brother had left him. He went to the trouble of breaking in, it must be rather important to Sherlock, though it was a shame he couldn't just be civilized and make an appointment or invite him to lunch like the gentleman his background suggested him to be. It was one of Sherlock's quirks that frankly reminded Mycroft of their father. Sherlock had been so stubborn even back when their father had been lost.

It had required almost two years before the youngest Holmes didn't fly into a rage each time there was a casual remark concerning their father's death. Then he'd taken to his brooding silences and each time Mycroft came home for holiday he could see his dear little brother shrinking as his physical body became all elbows and hyper-extensive gawky joints and electric eyes announcing his towering ego.

Mycroft carefully read the file. Molly Hooper was the subject. It seems Sherlock had trusted a sleeper. Before him was proof that Moriarty had not so much created his web, as consolidated it into what it is now. He was a mythical Arthur, uniting an underworld. Molly was a lost princess, a grail maid, and he objectively found it very unlikely that she was unaware of her ties and duties.

Moriarty, in this case was not a family name, but a title. James Moriarty was never a man any more than Richard Brook was an actor. Mori means to die. Moriarty means a great navigator of the seas. He has no known children, yet it is said that they are searching for his heir.

He took on the surname when he'd earned it. He was not so much a fellow named James Moriarty but a king of crime. He was James, the Moriarty. Mycroft thought back into history. He felt as if his own deductive mind should have made the connections long ago. He sat very still, thinking and following the paths his subconscious selected. Mycroft focused on a story of his family and it was as if dusty puzzles finally slotted together in his mind.

It was joked that the Holmes family had been behind the crown since England had been an outpost of Rome. There were four families who were called the magic behind the majesty. There is a legend that says when the ravens leave the tower of London, England would fall. There are actual captive birds who people think her majesty has discourse with for advice. It is a silly fairytale much beloved by the tourists and touted as fact.

Of course, every fairytale has some truth. The four families are secretly known as the Ravens. They have served for generations, yet the history books never speak of these advisors. Oh, on occasion they get mentioned in reference to some deed or document. Once in a while, there is a beheading. But there is always a raven watching over the crown. This service has never been limited to England, but nobody needs to know about that.

Richard the lionhearted was attended by a Holmes all the way to the crusades and it was a Holmes who paid his ransom and brought him back to his beloved people. It is legend that the last of the Templars were protected by the French Holmes family and found safe passage for the betrayed knights. There should have been reprisals, but even foolish popes and greedy kings can be brought to justice. The Poor Knights were aided by the St. Claire family and continued existence into the present day.

Queen Elizabeth the First had a tower full of brilliant ravens and look what she accomplished with their council. Queen Mary banished most of them, in her normal bloody fashion. Yes, there were truths behind the myths. Bloody Mary had faith in Rome, not ravens. Good Queen Bess had faith in her clever birds and they had served her with faith in England.

There were stories of Mycroft's Great-Great-Grandfather told in hushed tones with both awe and shame. The year was 1893 and coincidentally another Sherlock Holmes waged an epic battle against a mathematician who was a Cambridge Professor. It was said that Mycroft and Sherlock's distant ancestor had died in disgrace. He'd been ruined by accusations and had died a broken man. Yet the family spoke of him with unreserved regard among themselves. They still named sons after him. He had been brilliant according to the family story. He had killed the evil Professor, sacrificing his own life in the process.

The official story was much darker. He'd gone down in history as a murderer. Some even claimed he was Jack the Ripper.

Mycroft had always listened to these tales with a bored skeptic's ear. Of course, Sherlock believed them hook, line and sinker, but he did get stuck with the name, so Mycroft had indulged his brother's questions much of the time.

There were other tales of that Sherlock from long ago having been caught red-handed visiting various famed Molly Houses. Buggery was against the law and to be found guilty meant prison and ruin. James Spensor was the last man to be hanged for the crime in 1860, but conviction or rumor effectively ended the life of anyone suspected none- the-less. There were many famous cases in which the highest were brought to ill fate at the mere accusation of such propensity. Sherlock had died in 1893 and it is rumored that his name was still being dragged through the muddy waters at the trial of Oscar Wilde two years later.

The coincidence of the name Moriarty now made Mycroft's skin crawl, for he'd seen variations on it for his whole life, yet never connected the dots. There were ancient records that spoke of bandits with names like Muircheardach and McMuirihertie.

His brother, his wonderful, brilliant brother, had bent time and legend and formed an answer of profoundly disturbing significance. He has tried to conquer an empire without borders and a king without a throne, who sinks into myth, mist and malevolence.

The evidence before him sickened him. Molly Hooper's ancestry spoke volumes. Molly's father was Harold Hooper, a boxer in his youth. He later became a supposed fisherman, who had ties with smugglers in the early seventies. He had appeared on several government watch lists but never been convicted of any crime. His wife's illness had brought about his apparent retirement from his supposed illegal career goals. His final days were spent as the proprietor of a small fish and chip shop. The wife was actually the most solid connection.

Molly Hooper's mother had been an O'Murich from Ireland. The O'Murich family had spawned some rather renowned creatures. The Professor was included in her familial line and so was a man by the name of James O'Murich who would grow up to be known as James Moriarty. James O'Murich would one day be buried under a black stone that read Sherlock Holmes. Molly and James were actually distant cousins.

Mycroft sat and contemplated these connections, feeling like he'd been personally betrayed by those who had vetted her. But, this had all taken place years before, so there had been no glaring connections to follow up. James would not risk his kingdom for many years and there was no reason to suspect Sherlock would be able to pull himself out of the rubbish he'd made of his life at that time. Molly was actually one of the few people who seemed to be willing to give Sherlock any kindness.

Detective Sargent Lestrade and Molly Hooper had managed to pull his brother into sobriety and some measure of responsibility. At the time, Mycroft was appreciative of any small favor on Sherlock's behalf. He'd run off to America at one point and Mycroft had washed his hands of the whole affair. He'd assumed his brother was dead by the time his influence had grown enough to have the power to track him down to some Florida backwater. He was returned to England, alive but addicted and his mind addled to such a degree that Mycroft was unsure if he would ever find more than a disappointing end.

He dashed a small fortune into treatment facilities. Sherlock preferred to sleep with fleas and commune with rats than admit he needed help. It was a terrible time for Sherlock and it was probably harder still on Mycroft, who genuinely wanted to see Sherlock take his place among the ravens. He'd wanted to be able to introduce Sherlock as his equal, not shamefully admit that he was here to collect him from another of his disastrous whims. Mycroft had tried so hard.

Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade had been the fundamental beginning of the bridge toward Sherlock finding his light. John Watson could be called his turning point, but the other two and in fact a hair-brained but lovable older woman who Sherlock had met in the colonies had done the impossible. If not for them, there never would have been a John Watson to whisk Sherlock into an off-beat nearly normal moment in life.

Moriarty had never shown his face before. He had never made himself known to Sherlock. They had no idea that he'd been making small overtures toward Sherlock Homes until the night his brother had deemed it necessary to challenge the wits of that cabbie. Thank heavens John had surreptitiously put a stop to that evening's possible outcome.

Mycroft was never so pleased in his life that he had _not_ managed to intimidate someone. His brother could have died due to his meddling in this case. It truly disconcerted him when John had turned to him calmly and inquired about his motives. The man had just shot someone, and cool and innocent as snow, turned and asked a government employee if his inquiries toward Sherlock where what…honorable? At that point, Mycroft was highly intimidated. Doctor Watson had shocked the British Government enough that he'd thought of hiring John himself. The two of them, Sherlock and the doctor, had strolled off laughing and planning dinner as if life could not get any more amusing.

John never seemed fooled by the Holmes bluster and yawl. He at once reassessed Mycroft and had on occasion volunteered many helpful suggestions, most of which Mycroft had heartily ignored. John had shamed him, included him, and actually become part of his family without any fanfare or sentimental exchanges. He was gone now and Mycroft hated to admit how much he would regret not making an overture that final night.

Of course he'd backed off the security detail, there were texts flying that night with indecision. John had met someone directly after Sherlock had left him. By the time Mycroft had set aside time to personally review the security tapes, his people's faces already were filled with disaster. First what took place in 221B would never be known because every camera in a five block radius suddenly stopped functioning.

Second, John didn't even bother to ditch his security detail that morning. Mycroft could find no fault in their actions. One man spent time in hospital because he'd tried to save John Watson. The other had notified Mycroft seconds after the doctor hit the water. Mycroft had petulantly demanded that they recover his body, for Sherlock. All of it was to no avail. John Watson had killed again with all the efficiency he had always displayed. This time his victim had definitely not deserved to die.

Mycroft, was in some ways, glad that John had not been recovered from the water so far. He dreaded his brother being unable to part with, well, _all_ of his doctor. Father had been odd about trophies. He especially liked skulls and had even brought one home to Sherlock once. He remembered Mummy screaming the words "a human skull for a seven year old boy…"

Father had immediately offered to bring the next one home to Mycroft, as if a fifteen-year-old boy may be in greater need of such a gift. Mycroft had declined father's kind offer, and hoped Sherlock would grow bored of Mr. Fellows soon. Mr. Fellows had been the only clean thing in Sherlock's suitcase upon his return from America. Sherlock certainly had not returned clean.

Mycroft would not have put it past Sherlock for a second to avidly display a matching bookend. He could see his brother introducing all future possible flat-mates to his dear friends, Mr. Fellows and Dr. Watson.

John probably would have known this and somehow weighted himself in such a way to guarantee he was not found. If the two of them had not been in the middle of such a row though and John had died, Mycroft wouldn't have put it past John to have approved of such a plan. John was an odd little man at times. He seemed to get Sherlock's sense of humor in ways that baffled Mycroft.

He'd seen John angry only a few times but the quiet control of it concerned him. He always wondered what would happen if John actually lost control. He wondered if the most lethal player was John or James. He'd concluded it was James. John had too many chivalrous notions of fair to beat James.

Mycroft knew of James Moriarty, but had greatly underestimated his power. He'd seemed like such a cocky little braggart, until just recently. Sherlock had caught his notice. He'd tried to woo Sherlock for twenty years and they had barely noted him. James and Sherlock had begun together at the pool where Carl Powers had drowned. They had been enemies but in a strange way, they had been much more. They had historical family alliances on opposing ends of the law, yet they both managed to always think themselves above the law, even above death or losing.

If they had ever aligned on the same side, good or evil, nothing could have stopped them from changing the world. If James had made his move earlier, what would Sherlock have become? Would he have been happier as some advisor to a monarch less noble than Mycroft's? Were they really that different when you looked at the whole?

Mycroft contemplated parallels. There were similarities, though intention must be weighed carefully. Government sought to protect its people and its resources, which was actually the same thing James did for his own people. Molly was certainly never in any danger from Jim Moriarty. Was she in fact protected?

Jim killed innocent people. Mycroft sent men into danger every day, knowing some would not return.

Moriarty earned his money by stealing, swindling, threatening, harassing, and was an unpredictable sociopath.

Mycroft grimaced and thought about what happened to those who didn't pay their taxes. Sherlock was notorious for forgetting. He'd had some rather heated dealings with HMRC whilst on the wrong end and though he'd thrown money and experts at it to make certain issues go away for his brother, if he hadn't been Mycroft Holmes, who knows where the difficulty would have ended. Sherlock certainly was not capable of mediation on his own behalf.

If all fundamental stewing about right and wrong and loyalty were removed from the picture, Sherlock might have found some measure of satisfaction and happiness within James Moriarty's kingdom. God knows he was born to be a pirate, or an art thief, or a cat-burglar. He demonstrated those skills every time he broke into Mycroft's office, just for fun. How would they have ever stopped him if he'd turned on them?

"Oh, bloody…"

He would have turned, if not for John.

Neither of the cabbies pills had tested as fatal. He'd never told Sherlock this fact. He'd hidden it from all eyes actually. It was for the best should anyone question the shooter's intent or ever come forward to identify the good doctor. Only now did this fact become significant. Moriarty provided the pills.

If Sherlock won or lost, he would have been unconscious within fifteen minutes. Both men would have been collected by Moriarty's entourage. The fate of the cabbie could be easily imagined because he'd served his purpose. But, Sherlock's fate may have gone any number of routes. Most of the probable outcomes would have included a choice between death and joining a certain kingdom.

The night at the pool, was probably a similar scenario. Sherlock brought Jim the missile plans like a gift.

Moriarty brought him his fifth pip as insurance. Things didn't go as smoothly as planned. John had done the unexpected. Moriarty had never intended to kill Sherlock. He'd wanted something else. If not, there was no purpose to the entire bomb game.

"I threw away thirty million quid, just to get you to come out and play," Jim had said.

Lestrade was Sherlock's handler for Mycroft.

What if Molly was Sherlock's handler for Jim?

John had spoiled Moriarty's games. John had filled the place of friend before Jim got done showing off. Only then did Jim's games really mean to harm Sherlock. Jim hoped to offer Sherlock what neither of them had ever had. One true friend was the reason, and plain little Dr. Watson had beaten Jim. Jim had made Sherlock's reputation with his insane little puzzles and when he lost, only then did he want to take it all away.

Jim's cell had been covered with writing, but only one word was ever written. Were all these actions some sort of perverse love-letter? Could all these actions be as simple as Jim seeking love from a man who had been diagnosed as incapable of understanding the word?

Jim went so far as to lie to the world. He arranged the three break-ins and the talk of the key-code in an enormous and elaborate scheme to win Sherlock from Dr. Watson. Jim could have won anyone he'd wanted with his brains, money and power. Why would he set his sights on Sherlock? What could he gain?

If you own the world, what is left to want? Sherlock was something Jim could not have. Then John showed up, older, damaged, boring and yet Sherlock loved him.

**_All the king's money and power and brawn could not steal Sherlock's heart from his John._ **

When it didn't work, he decided to destroy them both, like a scorned woman. Love is the most vicious motivator in the world. Could it be unrequited love that destroyed Jim?

It obviously destroyed John.

_Jim wins now. He has burned the heart out of my brother._

John had been Sherlock's Raven. The raven has left the tower. Sherlock will fall to the sea.

Sweat beaded on Mycroft's upper lip. Visions of Sherlock Moriarty clouded his eyes with tears. They are searching for his heir. What happens when the heir is found?

Damn John Watson for opening this door. He brought this plague upon Sherlock. John taught him to love. Mycroft cursed the man for his death. He knew it was an irrational anger; John had no way of knowing. If only Mycroft had the presence of mind to explain or figure this out sooner. If only Sherlock had seen this before he lost all will to fight what may be his undoing.

Mycroft turned to the last page in the file. It was a handwritten note from his brother. Of course it was written in their own childish 'pirate' code. Mycroft's fingers trembled as he quickly translated it. It was a simple, if unknown, substitution and shift. It would only take an expert a few hours to extract any message written this way, but it did keep random prying eyes at bay.

**_Dearest Brother,_ **

**_I leave this file in your care. I never suspected her. I leave her fate in your hands, unable to justify any action against her or in her favor. I am sure you will ask her to meet with you and have an extensive interview with Miss Hooper. Did she play us? Is she naïve or calculating? I suppose her willingness to cooperate will speak for itself, will it not?_ **

**_She did save my life, as you know. This never would have mattered without her and I would be long dead without her intervention and recently dead without her assistance. It may be of no matter, but my indecision toward her and her roll in John's death must be weighed against my own guilt in his resolution to leave me._ **

**_Perhaps, he could not survive the thought of my loss again. Maybe my words and actions were what spurred his hopeless end. I always feared I would break him and it would seem that he no longer was sure of reality. She should have never told him. He should have been stronger before he was told. If I had truly believed he would die, what would it have harmed us for his last moment to be spent with me? I can honestly think of no punishment worse than living without him._ **

**_His note makes no sense to me; he knew I was not dead at the moment he left it for us to find. I have contemplated it in every possible permutation and all I can imagine it to mean was that his final hours took place in a fugue of irrationality. I will never know. I don't deserve to know. I never deserved him._ **

**_If I wish to wallow in truths here, I never deserved you either, my brother. You have been my life long dearest guide and the most worthy arch-enemy anyone could hope for in life. We were so enjoyably engaged with the pursuit to unravel each other; I fear we may have succeeded._ **

**_It is my hope that I will find the will to return to you someday. Have faith in me. Perhaps it will make the difference at some unknown moment of despair. I freely admit that I embark on this task with little hope and mountains of desolation. I don't care what happens to me now. Only the work matters. You tried to teach me that caring was not an advantage and as always I should have listened. Forgive me for doubting that I broke that rule in your heart._ **

**_I know you always cared. Things are so much clearer in retrospect, are they not?_ **

**_Watch over Mrs. Hudson. She will be terribly bored without John and me to give her a bit of intrigue. Perhaps you may find some small role for her to play. You know she is inexorable in her loyalty to me as I shall forever remain towards her._ **

**_Mummy is not upset with my intent. I have explained this to her and she has opened her own limited and ancient contacts for my assistance. I will be in touch through her. Those near you may be compromised. I realize you think it insanity to utilize a bunch of old duffers, but I assure you they are not as far removed from us as you may assume. The elderly are like the homeless, invisible and numberless and yet they have a wealth of sly tricks we would never think to employ._ **

**_Do not let Lestrade come to harm. Find that bastard who is still under deep cover in his department. I wish it were Anderson, but it honestly is not. Sally hates me, but I have always trusted her to be objective, stupid from time to time but unwilling to compromise. She may be mistaken but she is never malicious._ **

**_I want to say this, but there is never space for words between us. You believe me to be saying goodbye to you. I am, but only as a precaution. I have disgraced you all our lives and you have put up with all the hateful things I have done, knowing it is my own self-loathing that made me take the actions I did. I said I don't care about myself and I know that frightens you, but caring is not an advantage. You are not an advantage, Mycroft. Deduce that._ **

**_I have never doubted you, Mycroft. You have always been right. None of this was your fault. This time, life or death, I swear I will make you proud of me this once._ **

**_Please don't torture Molly. She responds to kindness. It's how he won her and how I probably lost her. Do remember that she may not be a saint but she has been my savior. I can't help but believe that she truly lost John too. If you discover anything helpful, let Mummy know. Our mother is a wicked woman and she has more secrets then you will ever believe._ **

**_Perhaps some distant Christmas, I will share some of her conspiracies and together we shall tease her unmercifully. I never did care for the pudding._ **

**_Nevermore, Mycroft._ **

**_With my deepest and truest respect,_ **

**_Nevermore_ **

Mycroft brought his handkerchief to his eyes. "Sherlock," he said softly almost like a prayer. He nodded, assuring himself that he did believe in his brother. Of course he'd never quite believe his brother would not find some way to either get out of his promise or make the fact a living hell for Mycroft if he did keep it, but that wasn't important right now. The code-word 'nevermore' was only used among the ravens and he was not handing him a maudlin suicide declaration, but a promise. He would do what he could to come back and despite his loss and his own grief; he'd taken the time to offer Mycroft both forgiveness and hope.

Someday there would be a Christmas dinner again.

Someday Sherlock would take his place at his side and fight with him to save the world.

Until that time, Mycroft would believe.

"Winstonia, I need Miss Hooper rounded up at once please," He said pushing the button on the intercom.

"Shall I send her an appointment card, Sir?" came the immediate reply.

Mycroft smiled and serenely instructed, "I think I am in the mood to surprise her, my dear. Will you see to it?"

"Yes, of course. She should be here within the hour."

Mycroft reclined in his chair and stretched languidly. He would see to it that Sherlock would be a Raven and not Moriarty's heir. He hoped Miss Hooper would have something of value to contribute to his effort.

* * *

. /englishwiz/library/names/etymology_of_last_

 **Moriarty** /Moirerdagh/Muirihertie: Irish Occupational Name...from very old Celtic terms muir =sea and cheardach =good navigator. Settled in County Kerry, on both sides of Castlemaine Harbor. The name is an anglicized version of Muircheardach or O'Muircheardach, with a literal meaning of skilled navigator of the sea. Variations include McMoirerdagh, and McMuirihertie. Requested by: Erina Moriarty

 **Moran** is a variant of the English and French surname Morant, which is an old given name of unknown etymology, but believed to mean 'steadfast' or 'enduring.' When of Irish descent, Moran is derived by Anglicizing O' Morain, (descendant of Moran), which usually has its accent on the first syllable, as opposed to the English and French version's second syllable accent.

For further reading on what a **Molly House** was, see: wiki/Molly_house

.

_Some of you have asked if I realize that I have an under-theme of water. First yes, I do realize. I never tell one story. There is always the high-concept plot, the side-plots and at least one undercurrent. Symbols are always important and are always a key. Many people don't enjoy reading my stories because they are not deep readers. The Holmes fandom has a huge percentage of readers who honestly amaze me with the subtle things they do pick up on._

_I don't wave my sign on tumbler so I realize I am on very few, if any Rec lists. That means you have stumbled here on your own, made a discovery, and you are not only still here, some of you have been kind enough to review, PM, follow or favorite. That means the world to me._

_I write complicated stories, I know. I try very hard not to waste your time. I don't feel writing these tales is a waste of my time either. That is because of you, dear reviewers. Sometimes I manage to open a door to you, make you think of something in a new way or make you feel like you need to comment back to me. With most fiction, the story is long finished before the readers ever see it. Fan Fiction has opened the door to writers. Anyone can be an author here. Anyone can offer opinion._

_That makes the time spent worth it. I have learned more than I ever thought possible in this place and though Thanksgiving is a traditionally American concept holiday that seriously has some much darker bubbles just under the surface, in its purest form, it is a moment to take the time to be thankful for opportunities and life experiences._

_Family is most often mentioned as the thing we begin this silly meal celebrating our thankfulness. I too am thankful for the people I am related to by blood, marriage and fate. But I want to take a moment to also mention that I am thankful to this whole concept of fan-fiction. I feel this is also a family and though we may be scattered all over the globe, may have never spoken in person, may disagree about many things, we still find a form of family thanks to this place. We put aside politics, borders, problems, and busy lives to come here and help each other, form friendships, and somehow become family._

_My heartfelt thanks to my reviewers, FF & AO3 friends, my critics, the authors who have given me many hours of entertainment and most of all every single reader who has found me. I also offer thanks to those of you who put up with my arrogance and still manage to teach me Write from Wrong. (sigh, yes the homophone was on purpose, grin.)_

_Please don't panic – we still have far to travel.  My updates are at a point of random chaos at this time.  I know exactly where we are going but will only update when I have the time to keep my research up to standard and still have the energy to write Fanfiction with the same obsession I am currently putting into my new violin and the book that lead me to it's discovery.  I am stepping out of my monster world and trying a story I never expected to write. Thank you for your patience and I very much appreciate your comments.  Howlynn_


	9. By Breezes Blown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tucks away a New John in his mind palace but much like the real John, this one is unpredictable. Mummy has minions too and Sherlock pretends to be a demon.

By Breezes Blown

**_Away! away! for I will fly to thee,_ **

**_Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,_ **

**_But on the viewless wings of Poesy,_ **

**_Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:_ **

**_Already with thee! tender is the night,_ **

**_And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,_ **

**_Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays_ **

**_But here there is no light,_ **

**_Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown_ **

**_Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways._ **

**_John Keats. 1795–1821, Ode to a Nightingale_ **

When Sherlock left Molly he knew he had been cruel. He spent the next few days insuring she would always think he was a bastard.

He knew he had treated her abominably, and he knew she would never forgive him. She would not tell on him either. She would not play the woman scorned and reveal he was alive to anyone ever again. It would probably cross her mind, and if Sherlock were the only thing betrayal would render of consequence, at this point, she might tend her bitter stew long enough to seek revenge.

But, she'd seen the havoc one slip had wrought. She had arched a blacksmith's hammer with unskilled hope and brought down ruin upon the delicate molten sword. Molly Hooper would have every justification to hurt Sherlock and even if she were not born with the blood of Satan himself, she had no need to ever be loyal to Sherlock again.

That silly notion of hers, that one day she might win his heart, by default, tenacity, favor or pity, would be a pyre of dry optimism just touched with flame. She would try to fight it, those small smoldering places in her heart labeled with all the things she thinks she sees in him, but in the end the fire would win.

She would watch the flames dance and feel the pain of all those pointless dreams. But because of Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, she would watch her heart burn in silence. She would stand in the hot coals and see that she had only loved a monster. As all fires cool, so would her anger. She was practical. She'd find some way to blame herself, until one day; she would only consider Sherlock Holmes to be a hard lesson learned.

She would seek a companion more like John Watson. (Not that there were any who would ever fill his shoes.) Molly would never fool herself into loving another Sherlock Holmes. He smiled at the idea that someday she would run across some poor sap who wore jumpers and could see her beauty and look beyond her appalling taste in clothing and decorative furnishings and maybe he would be the most boring bloke to walk the earth, but if he treated her as she deserved, Sherlock would not have to kill him.

He wished he could have somehow made her understand why he had to do what he did. He had watched her big brown eyes go dull and then flash with fear. He knew he'd done the right thing, even if it makes him sick to think of her alone.

He hated the deed and himself at that moment. Of course he did, he'd sought comfort and intentionally delivered her agony for kindness, treachery for faith. John would have been cross with him for what he did to her. John would have braced himself in fury, glared at him, attempted to explain to Sherlock that he had again disappointed his blogger, and probably would have had to take several unscheduled London strolls to control his desire to toss Sherlock out of a first floor window, repeatedly, until he felt calm.

God, how Sherlock wished to see John shout at him. He bargained with the universe for one last time, as he slipped into a cab and began his penance. He was off to see Mummy and her friends. He would never again see John. He had promised his brother to become part of his stodgy old puffer world filled with the ancient steam engines of the boring and unable to change. They expect and restrict and force all the little engines to follow along on shiny tracks. It did not matter now, because he was already nothing and it would be so easy. "But here there is no light," Sherlock whispered.

The cab driver watched him and finally ventured, "You look like someone."

"I take cabs frequently. Probably met at some point," Sherlock volunteered.

The cabby shrugged, "Could be right. I was thinking you looked like that dead bloke. My mistake."

Sherlock's head rested against the frosty glass and his eyes closed against the dawn. The cabbie, unfortunately not a serial killer bent on games of destruction, was thankfully willing to provide his service silently. Sherlock's thoughts imagined John alive and the two of them like they were before.

He would eventually have made John understand. John would have ultimately sat down at some random moment of inconvenience, worn out from his many days of not speaking to Sherlock, and turned his gentle hesitant eyes toward his flat-mate and said, "Okay. Take me through it, if you don't mind, because I can't look at that face any longer."

There would have been a little side spat of Sherlock pretending not to understand what was wrong with his face and John making sarcastic insulting remarks he didn't actually mean. They would have traded the familiar witty piss-shots, had a chuckle neither of them could contain as the tension between them dissipated with infusions of tea and maybe take-away. Sherlock would have agreed to John's food selection, letting him take point for the needed discussion. It would make John feel in control and when his stomach was bulging and he snuck the top button open on his trousers, he would be ready to hear logic.

"It is very simple; a child could understand that I am a monster. You died because of that, John, and I would have done anything to save you. Do you realize how difficult it is to admit that I was wrong?"

"I imagine it must rate right up there with giving Mycroft a foot massage, while smiling and asking his opinion on tobacco ash?"

"Then you do understand. Good," Sherlock would say as if the discussion was concluded.

John would roll out his patient dealing-with-Sherlock face and carefully explain that he understood the difficulty of Sherlock admitting he was wrong but wanted a more detailed description of what he was wrong about. John might even prove he isn't dead with some small touch or gesture. A kiss would be Sherlock's wish. He could still taste John and just because he'd said no, did not mean he had not taken in each sensation like light into his secret soul.

Probably a kiss would be too much to ask and John would more likely take the monster label and turn it into some clever form of complimentary insult, as only John could pull off with such a straight face while his eyes twinkled with conviviality.

He took a deep breath of the cab-scented air as if he were about to actually speak. In his mind he explained to John and it faded the grey morning light and a non-existent place became his reality for the moment. "I harmed you because I let you love me. I should have never allowed you to think I was human."

"You _are_ human," he would interject.

"No. I tried to be better for you but I only damaged your life for my effort. Not much cop in it for you, this wanting to fix me thing. I won't make the same mistake with Molly. If she hates me, she won't try to end it all for me or because of me or by trying to save me. This has been hard on her. It has made her fragile."

"So, let me get this correct. You know she's a beautiful, intelligent, kind woman, and she's devastated right this minute. Her fiancé died and she probably blames herself and you admit she is in a fragile state. And your solution to that is? Seriously? You shag her like a brass nail and hand her a nice tip of blame and think you played a blinder?" Ghost John would be leaning toward him, elbows on his knees, hands clasp in the center with his two index fingers meeting and all but wagging at Sherlock.

Sherlock's breathing hitches to a stop in pleasure as he looks around and reaches his finger out to feel the smooth leather of his chair. He can touch things. This picture is so clear and he is lost in the fact that his palace has finally made an important leap. He's building on to the palace so that John may live in this amalgam of the best things and somehow he'd crossed into sensation. He'd been attempting it for years with limited success. Baker Street, a present tense John, warm fires and fairy lights belong in this addition.

Sherlock doesn't realize his lips move as he answers New John, "I needed that memory and I didn't casually shag her or treat her with anything other than respect during, I will have you know."

John shakes his head and wets his lower lip and then gasps, "That? That is not respect. There is no way even you—"

" I loved her with all I could give, even if she won't look at it that way. I know that is true… and maybe one day the big picture will seep into her and she will know as well." Sherlock interrupts.

"How can you be such a selfish dick?" John shouts in frustration.

Sherlock speaks calmly, " I was not a selfish lover. I hope I wasn't. I was rather beyond desperate the first round, but it wasn't just sex, John. I have not cried in front of anyone but you since I was a child. I gave her the last tears I will ever shed. I gave her the very last of me."

"Okay, you really are thinking this was some kindness? Sherlock, you gave me the same kind of…"

" I couldn't give you anything, so I donated all the last good -bits to Molly. Forgive me, John. I know she belonged to you, but you did abandon her which allowed my prior claim to reinstate. That isn't the whole picture though." Sherlock takes several deep breaths as if he's having a small panic attack.

"I'm listening? You brought me here. Say something you mean." New John won't look at him. He stares into the fire chewing his lip.

Sherlock sits quietly until John finally turns his head back to him and gestures for Sherlock to continue. He looks into New John's eyes and leans forward, begging his best friend's replica to understand. " She was all I had left of you and I gave her the only joy I had in me to share. Yes, I manipulated her into thinking very little of me afterward. I pretended to be rather insane. I gave her my best bolt hole and Mycroft will take her into protective custody soon. I may have exaggerated his intent towards her, but in the end, she will win him over. Please comprehend John, you are not here and I have to carry on. It is a fate far worse than boredom and far crueler to me. She will never again see me as anything but ordinary, but that view will protect her. Her anger will give her all the strength she needs now."

"You should have told her the truth," New John argued.

"Did I not? This is my truth. I am nothing close to human now. I am trapped in this hateful transport and I will burn the world until I avenge what he did to me. To us. It led here, John. It all led us to this truth. You hated me so much, you left me. I was wrong. I know it. I wish I had said yes, but I didn't and I can't change that. I can't change what you did. You sentenced me to this punishment. My only reward will be when I can finally seek you again. Perhaps, by that point you…will have forgiven me."

"If that were true, why not end it? Kill Sherlock Holmes for real this time? Why bother with your useless explanations to me? I'm not here," New John asked.

"Yes you are. I feel you. I accept your judgment, John. You didn't want me to die. You wanted me to live in torture. You want me to live what I put you through and I will die insane and old if it means you are satisfied. I would follow you now if you would let me. This second. I would happily be boiled alive if physical pain would appease you. I am afraid to die, for the first time in my life, John. If I die now, I will never see you again, because you will not have forgiven me. If I die now, I go to hell. "

"You don't believe in hell, last time I checked. And if you didn't escape, you'd probably take the place over. Run all the demons out with your bloody experiments at the very least." John leaned back and smiled at Sherlock in a shy appraising way. His finger went to his lips and he looked around the room as if noticing it for the first time. "So, this? All of this. Our whole flat, and is it Christmas for some reason? Bit early don't you think?"

Sherlock watched New John and bask in his details. New John's chest rose and fell as if breathing and his hair stuck up in the back like when he'd just showered. New John's eyes were the perfect shade of a summer's twilight sky and his fingernails were short and clean befitting a doctor.

Sherlock licked his lips and spoke softly, "This is my…not-hell. I know hell exists now, John. All I have to do is open my eyes. Hell is boring. It's real and you know it is."

John snorted slightly and his focus returned to Sherlock. "Why am I here Sherlock? Why are you doing this? You left me. I told you I would do this, if you didn't take me with you. You told me I was useless. You decided my purpose was over and I gave you all the freedom of the world? Why am I in the famous 'Mind Palace?' " John raised his arms and wrote sarcastic quotation marks in the air.

Sherlock tilted his head, "I thought that would be obvious. I am taking you with me, the only way I can."

"Oh. I see. So, what do I do here, exactly?" John inquired, wrinkling his forehead.

"It's heaven, John. You can do anything you want. Read dull-plotted predictable novels, or make tea, or take naps…you always liked those things," Sherlock offered helpfully.

"Can I leave?"

"Oh," Sherlock sighed as every bit of available air escaped his lungs. His heart throbbed and pain seared him. Even his John-recreation didn't want to stay. What was to be said to that? He didn't want him to go. John was safe here, or at least some small version of him was safe. Sherlock nodded, and whispered, "If you wish to."

"Good answer," John said standing up. He stuck his bottom toward the fire and sighed in pleasure. "Just so we get this straight, Sherlock, just because I'm inside your head, doesn't mean you control me. Understand?"

Sherlock paled but nodded silently. That was a surprising attitude for a fabrication of his imaginings.

"There are rules. My rules. And…you will follow them. If you want to come back here," John said with authority.

"It is my head. You're going to make rules in my head? God, I thought Mycroft was arrogant…" Sherlock saw the look on John's face and stopped speaking.

"Choices, genius. This one is all yours," John said low and dangerous.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "Go on?"

"No lies. You lie to me, and I lock that door."

"I lie to you all the time. You rarely notice," Sherlock said, unable to help rolling his eyes and sighing with disgust as he looks away from the mental apparition.

"Really? Care to test my word? Testing my word is why we're here, I believe. I do hope you remember that I don't just have access to this room, Sherlock. There is an entire Palace for me to play in now. Your palace. And you can only stop me by sending me away. This time, you have to try harder. I'm in your head. I will _know_ if you lie. There will also be no more of your recreational pharmaceuticals. Not on my watch." John shrugs his shoulders as if he doesn't care one way or the other.

Sherlock is suddenly aware that he is somewhat afraid of New John. He chews his lip and frowns.

"You should be afraid, Sherlock, because if you keep me, you are mad as a box of frogs. Think it over; you can let me know…" John said and then he and the flat washed away and Sherlock is aware that he's being jostled.

"Hey! Mate. You're here, I say. Meters still running for as long as you want to keep mumbling, but I got an hour's drive back to London. Jeeze, I always gotta catch the freaks, don't I? "

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked around. "Must have dozed on you. Apologies."

"Yeah. Bad dream then I suppose," the cabbie said in relief as he opened the boot to get the luggage.

Sherlock settled the fare, adding a generous tip because the man hadn't talked the whole time and he must have been flying to have arrived here so quickly.

The cabbie gave him a bit of a second look as he counted, raised his eyebrows in surprise and tucked his cash away. "Look, you got some place to go, mate? I mean, this is in the bloody middle of nowhere. It's a dangerous spot to be dumped out, you know. I mean, there's these stories and shite. I could take you on to town?"

Sherlock smiled, set his bag and violin down and looked back. He turned back to the man and asked, "Surely you don't believe in those old tales of crossroads, do you? Modern man like you? Sun's up, you're perfectly safe," he said spreading his hands as if to ask what there could be to fear.

The man chuckled slightly but regarded the high impenetrable hedgerows and looked back at his fare with less surety. "Yeah, I mean it is all bollocks, I'm sure. I'd just feel bad if…"

Sherlock took a step back towards the man and rubbed his hands together as if about to sit down at a feast. "You wouldn't be tempted by…shall we say an arrangement…would you? Place is only dangerous to those who are willing for it to be a place of corruption. It depends on what you want, of course, but money, fame, torture of enemies are all pretty standard. Sherlock Holmes, perhaps you've heard of me? First day on the job and I'd love to make a sale. My boss is rather a tyrant about our first sales." Sherlock smiled broadly, knowing the expression didn't fit his face in a pleasant way.

"Mad bugger…"The cabbie slammed the boot and without another word, got in the car and locked the door, a look of fear on his face. He clumsily put the car in gear, not taking his eyes off Sherlock and the engine sputtered slightly in protest of the rough treatment.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the road, watching the cabbie watch him in his mirrors. Sherlock waited until the cabbie had to look forward for a second and then quickly hastened into the secret angle cut pass-through of the hedge rows. He waited for a count of three and the satisfying sound of the cab breaking on rewarded his little prank. The car idled for a few seconds and then the driver's window rolled down.

"Hey. Hey mister? You there?"

Sherlock snickered into his sleeve but stayed put. The cab driver didn't take long to decide he was not interested in examining or solving ghost stories. He knew what he'd heard about this place and now he'd seen it with his own eyes.

Sherlock picked up his suitcase and his violin and took the short cut up to the back of the house. He'd just started over a low stone wall when a voice unexpectedly said, "I suppose you think that's funny, harassing poor hardworking cabbies like that?"

Sherlock spun around. He searched for the source of the voice. "Well, you shot one," Sherlock replied.

"That's true. It was a bit funny I suppose." His laugh began with that typical deep gasp John always took just before he bubbled into hysterics.

Sherlock joined him and added, "Bit ill-advised, but he'd already recognized me. This makes a much better story."

When the moment passed he listened carefully. "John?" Sherlock said grinning and turning. "Where are you? I can hear you."

"God, and you're brilliant. Hey Genius? In. Your. Head," the clipped reply plainly arrived through his ears, not his thoughts. "Change your mind about keeping me?"

Sherlock stood perfectly still for a moment, eyes open looking around. "No," he whispered.

"Didn't expect that? Don't worry, everything else is real, Sherlock."

Sherlock sniffs and looks in the direction from which the sound seems to originate. "You got out?"

There is a chuckle then the voice of New John said, " You know, I found my way around a bloody desert with people shooting at me just fine. Did you really think I wouldn't be able to navigate your little castle of doom and gloom? Jesus, was there anything besides tea you actually liked about me..or maybe respected?"

"Don't be an idiot." Sherlock said nothing more as he stomped across the dew-damp field, certain a shadow of some sort followed two steps behind and to his right.

He soon arrived at the back door of the stone house he'd played at as a child. The Wheatley's had long ago been quirky, but Mummy adored them. His shoes and the lower half of his trousers were soggy and the rest of him had attracted a battalion of gnats that were about to drive him insane.

He knocked. A man with very grey eyes and bushy white eyebrows peeped out the door and spent several seconds peering about randomly as if he were expecting snipers at every corner.

"Mr. Wheatley, it's me. Merletta's son? I threw up on you when I was four. You snuck me a glass of the wrong eggnog?"

"What? Blood and sand you got tall. What the hell are you doing out there?"

Sherlock's mouth dropped open and he fake smiled and said, "I am looking for my mother? Thought she might have been captured by a garden troll."

"Good God man? She's in the damned kitchen and we are not infested with gnomes. Trolls were killed off ages ago. You've got us confused with the Dorchesters up the road. Damned things crawling all over everything there. I offered to loan them my Enfield and they acted like I was the bleeding lunatic? I think they rather like the vicious things over there. Aye?" Mr. Wheatley proclaimed in confidence.

Sherlock looked off in the direction Mr. Wheatley pointed. "Perhaps they do, sir. Always were a weird lot."

"Oh, so you're the smart one then. Well that's a relief, I tell you; I thought they were sending the crazy one up to us. Can't stand that one, you know. I'll tell you this, lad, those bleeding-heart Dorchesters won't think it's such a grand thing, letting the cursed gnomes run amuck, once one bites them. Bloody things can rot your arm off, just from a little nip. " He moved his eyebrows as if everyone in the universe with any intelligence would agree with him.

"I have heard that, sir. If you could just unlock the door, perhaps you could tell me more astounding observances without the hindrance of all this glass and wood?" Sherlock said politely, though his friendliness was now crashed and he was about to strangle an old prat if he didn't get out of his way.

"Oh, yes, of course." Mr. Wheatley commenced to fiddling with the lock as if he'd never seen it before in his life. Sherlock had his hand in his pocket, clasping his lock picks when finally the lock was thrown and the door opened.

Sherlock brushed past him. " Smart one. Crazy one. Sorry to disappoint." Sherlock grumbled as he quickly strode up the hallway dropping his bags and bee-lined into the kitchen.

"Mummy?" he said as he entered the chaotic kitchen.

"There you are, dear. You remember my dead son don't you, Eloise?" she said peeking up from her tile work. The kitchen table was covered in brightly colored stepping stones, and unfinished ones and bits of tile everywhere.

"Oh it's been a long time, since you ran off to Hollywood to be a star or some such, but of course I do." She winked at his mother and added, "You could probably turn this whole resurrection thing to an advantage. Start a religion or something? Good money there."

"Mrs. Wheatley, delighted." Sherlock said kindly and bowed slightly.

"I say, Eloise, no need to worry dear, its Sherlock, not that bloody Mycroft. Oh sorry, Ducks, but your older boy is six-pence short of a shilling. Say, did you scare the taxi, like I showed you as a lad?"

Sherlock smiles up at Mr. Wheatley with genuine affection all forgiven now that Mycroft was the crazy one and says gently, "Of course, sir. You would have tanned my tatties if I had skived off." He replied using Mr. Wheatley's old phrase from when Sherlock had been here as a child.

Mr. Wheatley smiled and put his hand on Sherlock and pointed, "See what I mean? Never forgets a thing, this one. Keeps up tradition. Good man!"

Eloise Wheatley moans, "Oh God, you didn't? Do you know how hard it is to get anyone to come here for dinner? They all want to leave before the sun goes down. You and your blasted foolery, Harper. And recruiting young Sherlock – God knows what will be said now. We'll be haunted next thing you know!"

Mr. Wheatley looks about the kitchen in innocence as his wife glares at him. "Think I'm on for a spot of tea," he announced without offering it to anyone else.

"Oh, darling. I am so sorry about your poor little doctor." Mummy said, making Sherlock's exact fake frown face.

Well, Sherlock knew this would come and he stood all the pitiful comments for almost an entire minute before he aloofly stated, "Thank you for your kindness, but I prefer to focus on the task before us, if you don't mind."

Mummy beamed with sly mirth. "That's my boy. I knew you'd be just fine. I told your brother that if your own death didn't stop you, why would poor John's?"

Sherlock kept his face as still as possible, "Yes, Mummy. I will be quite alright. But, we must remember that Mycroft has been of prodigious value in this so far. He does mean well."

His mother looked impressed, "Getting on a bit better, I see. It is about time, you know. You will keep your promise to him?"

"He told you?"

Mrs. Holmes raises one eyebrow at her son, "He didn't have to. I may be old, but don't think for a second I am not still your Mother."

Sherlock smirked and said quietly, "Olive Juice."

Mummy nodded and winked at him. "Yes, I think a Bloody-Mary would make breakfast all around. Harper Wheatley? Stop pretending to drink tea and bring that vodka over here. We are celebrating."

"I don't know what you mean, Ducks. This is just my cure for the dreaded lurgy." Harper says defensively, looking to Sherlock for help.

Sherlock carefully keeps his face cloaked and yawns to hide his reaction to a comment in his ear, "Vodka at half-seven? I like your mother already."

Sherlock clears his throat and replies, "I'll have a bit of that, Mr. Wheatley. Preventative measures. Hear the lurgy is unseasonably early this year."

* * *

_In case you didn't get the reference – if you say 'Olive Juice' you hear that word. If you read lips it looks the same as - I love you. It is easy to misunderstand things and that point is made several times in this chapter._

_Merletta means black-bird._

_Want a treat? Listen to Mr. Cumberbatch read Ode to A Nightingale on Utube – John Keats wrote words that deserve that voice._

_Dreaded lurgy - Invented and popularized by Spike Milligan on the Goon Show._


	10. Mind over matter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock pushes his limits and his elderly spooks buttons.

Mendacity chapter 10

 

Sherlock rolled over and searched his room.  New John stood at the window and Sherlock noted that his opacity was incomplete from his jumper down.  “John, you are fading.  Is everything alright?”

John turned and smiled.  “You are healing.  Your grief has lessened and I… will fade.”

Sherlock pushes himself into a sitting position, “No.  I can’t do this.  Not without you.  Please don’t leave me?”

His imaginary John shook his head and snorted slightly with amusement before his focus returned to the window.  “I’m not really here. I can’t leave until you are ready.  It would be best for you to move on.  You can’t hide me forever.  They may be old and unable to pass up a loo or work a mobile phone without their glasses, but they are not stupid.  They know something is off about you.  You have to stop sneaking around corners to talk to me, and in truth, if I am fading, that is a good sign.”

“No.  I need you.” Sherlock replied.

“Sherlock, it has been two months.  I am not asking you to forget me.  I am keeping my place in your mind palace, but we both know that I am not quite what you want.  I am sorry.  Life goes on and you will one day move on and that doesn’t mean you will forget me, it just means that you have accepted—“

“I don’t accept,” Sherlock spat.

  He stood up and moved near his apparition, careful not to touch him, yet his eyes filled with tears and his fingertips buzzed with the desire to reach out and cup John’s face.  He’d learned not to follow these impulses.  John was not real, yet he could forget that fact so long as he kept his hands away.  Watching his fingers pass through John had shattered his ability to pretend that New-John was as real as his three elderly companions.  Oh the mirage was not perfect, he certainly noticed that nobody spoke to John or understood why Sherlock randomly chuckled at times, but seeing John let Sherlock’s heart rest from the ever present guilt, anger and sorrow long enough to function. 

“You must not fade away. Not now.  The others depend on me.  I won’t say that they are incompetent, but neither are they capable of seeing this through if I am operating at less than full function.  If you fade, it will distract me. If I am distracted, I may get them killed.  Please.” Sherlock looks away on the last word, knowing that he is arguing with himself alone doesn’t diminish his humiliation that he is begging a small insane part of his mind to not get well. 

“You know that I am dead.  Time will do what it is meant to do.  I have no power over this.  Sherlock, I don’t want you to mourn me at the expense of your sanity. Can’t you understand that this,” John said waving his hand between them, “Is not healthy?  I am a tool for you to find peace.  I am not and can’t be your peace with the fact you are going to lose your mind.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes in the dark room and his hands yank at his hair in frustration. “Then stop this unbearable transparent version.  The moonlight is shining through you and if I have to look upon you in terror that one day I won’t have you, I may as well let Mycroft lock me away right now.  My sanity is the last thing I care about at this time. What does it even matter in the long run? It’s bad enough I know I can never touch you again and will never know the taste of your skin.  I can still feel you in my dreams…your lips, your heartbeat … in my dreams, you are warm.  I…I would rather be insane and delusional than have to face … that I made a mistake that cost you your life.  I don’t have time for that kind of pain right now.  I have followed your rules.  If you leave me…” Sherlock trailed off, letting the unspoken threat play across John’s face.

“You realize that you are threatening your own mind that if it chooses to heal, you will destroy it?  That is probably the stupidest thing I have ever heard you say,” New John said glaring up at his friend with that mother-hen fierce anger he’d so often turned on Sherlock when he was intentionally misbehaving.

“Possibly. Never-the-less, it is the truth.  I hate this.  We are eliminating the crumbs and I have let the meaty-bits slip away.  This will take years at this rate.  My plan was better.”

“Your plan was suicide, Sherlock.  Your plan had no possibility of success.”

“Oh, it would have been quite successful.  I can assure you that my goals would have been remarkably efficient in liquidating all his vital structural support.  The web would be forever broken.  It was faster and if I had simply gone on alone—“

“You’d be dead.  Right now.  You would actually be dead and have accomplished nothing!” John shouts in frustration.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and his lips part slightly as if he had just slapped a third nicotine patch on his arm as he sighs “God, yes.”

John peeps up at him as if he’s pleased Sherlock agrees with his assessment. “Yes and that would be a bit not—“

“I’d be with you.  It would be over by now and I would be –“

“Bored!  You would be bored with no escape.  Death is boring, Sherlock.”

“This is boring!  Where… ever you are…isn’t.  Oh, John…I…I miss you.  This phantom of you is all I have that makes this whole thing remotely bearable.  How do I keep this up?  I was at least a wasp in the web before.  I am wasting my time freeing flies and tapping out false motions while the web grows stronger.  I have to work my way.” He has begun pacing with edgy energy.

John’s voice goes calm and moderate, “There is no hurry now, mate.  You were rushing because you wanted to go home.  You were taking terrible risks and you know, some of what you did was more than a bit not good.  I’m not saying they didn’t deserve to suffer.  But you know for a fact that there were several occasions that you…”

“That I what?” Sherlock slowed his pacing and focused his attention on John, trying to deduce an unchanging memory, yet forgetting for an instant that this John could only exude cues Sherlock’s mind created.

“Liked it.” John met his eyes for a moment then looked away, out the window again as if longing to be elsewhere.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and shrugged, “And?”

“And you may have not liked who came home to London.  It changes you and not for the better.” John’s chin lifted and his lips jutted forward.  Sherlock knew he had more he wanted to say, but was attempting to control how much he shared.

Sherlock folded his fingers and pretended to suddenly understand what John meant. “Oh.  In other words, you would not have approved of me. If you were still alive, you would tell me that you were disappointed that I had ruthlessly murdered those upstanding pillars of humanity?  You think I would bring that version back to London…perhaps home to you?  Would my new found skills eventually fulfill Sally’s prophetic musings on my nature?  You think that I would find infamy more amusing than I did fame?”

John glances at Sherlock, taking his measure before he speaks softly the bombs of doubt. “I think, Sherlock, that you have a line that is more fluid than I ever realized and that this may, still, do you more harm than you wish to admit.  Violence can be as addictive as any drug and it has the similar side-effect of always needing a little more to replicate the endorphin surge experienced previously.”

“Is that how it works?  Is that why you killed Jefferson Hope?  For the thrill rather than necessity?  Are you really that good of a shot or was it my mistake to think it mattered which of us you ended that night? Your vote of confidence is most treasured.   The real John never doubted me nor I him.”

John crosses his arms and takes a very deep calming breath, “Yeah, well, I’m not him, am I?  And before you accuse me of groundless suspicion, don’t forget where I am.  You keep very detailed files in here.  Benefit of the doubt is harder to give when I see it exactly as you remember it.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow and his face blanks in aloof disdain for John’s words.  “Taking a shower.”

By the time he was out and dressed, the adjoining door was open and three elderly but fit gentlemen had invaded his space though the sun was not yet up.  John was no longer keeping vigil at the window.  The smell of tea and bangers and old man grooming supplies assaulted his nose.  “Gentlemen.” Sherlock said in greeting before flopping casually in the last unoccupied chair.

“Heard you in here talking…we were up so decided to get an early start,” Grady Pauley said casting a wink at one of the others. He looked toward Sherlock innocently but the challenge of ‘who were you talking with’ crackled in the air. 

Sherlock sighed.  “I was discussing our situation with Mycroft.  We are both concerned that our endeavors, though successful, have been rather mundane considering the expense involved.”

“But we knew that in the beginning we were only to target the non-essential branches, gather data without disrupting any major operations.  That has worked. We know more now than we ever dreamed of obtaining,” Grady said with just the beginning of controlled defensiveness in his voice.

Sherlock didn’t want to insult these men. They had been very useful and unperturbed by unforeseen logistic problems.  He looked around the table and nodded. “Please be advised, I am not unhappy with our projects so far, however, you are all capable of far more than I expected.  I assumed that there would be fatigue issues as well as a bit of retraining necessary.  That has not been the case in my opinion.”

“Are you saying three old dogs have impressed the pup?” Herbert Rainer asked puffing out his chest slightly.

Sherlock deliberately formed a calculated smile.  “I am.”

Sherlock waited for the preening to subside before continuing. “I therefore feel that we are capable of moving on to the next phase.  You can all handle yourselves quite admirably and frankly your talents are wasted on these small potato criminals. I never meant to bore you all.  I didn’t realize all of you could be the fruitful equivalent to men twenty years _your_ junior. Want to see some really exciting games?”

There was general assent at the suggestion.

Sherlock waited and softly added, “Could be dangerous?”

Grady winked at Sherlock.  “I told you, he is exactly like his father, God rest his soul,” he said to the others with a melancholy pride.

“My father was a great man.  I would very much hate for him to accuse me of taking the path of anodyne progress.  I leave the choice to you.  You have far more experience than I.  Shall we continue our painless little prickles or have we ended our boy’s camp endeavors.   Can you handle more?”    

He got the response he hoped for and all of them exuded enthusiasm.   If he weren’t a sociopath, Sherlock might have felt a bit guilty for fanning old men’s egos in order to implement his own agenda, but playing by the rules had never suited him for long.  It was time to move on to bigger tournaments that would actually do more to the web than pluck at the strings without getting the spider's attention.  In the meantime, while he sent them in one direction, Sherlock intended to step up his own games.  The humble gleaner may gather slowly, but combines were more efficient in cutting noticeable swaths in the vast fields.

* * *

Kudo Juju motivates updates and comments are always very much appreciated.

 

 


	11. What I want to be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's recovery and Ford remembers

 

 

_“I know exactly what I want and who I want to be_

_I know exactly why I walk and talk like a machine_

_I'm now becoming my own self-fulfilled prophecy”_

                                 Oh No! --Marina and the Diamonds

 

John winced as Rat put him through his paces.

 They had been in hiding for five months and other than the intermittent move and Rat scarpering off on occasion, there was little to do besides recover.  John had been on six very boring missions and he felt useless.  Rat constantly affirmed that Sherlock was fine, but John had yet to lay eyes on him and it was frustrating.

  John’s injuries were not the only issue that had the doctor’s breath huffing far before it should and his heart pounding protest to things he’d always taken for granted he could do.  John had succumbed to his throes of depression after Sherlock died, not eating or sleeping properly and drinking far too much.

He’d regained some ground while he was with Molly, but his softened life combined with his recent injuries left his physique and his stamina far below the endurance Rat required of him.  Rat was both understanding of his injury related limitations whilst having little kindness toward the restrictions John had perpetrated upon himself.  He doled out encouragement when John failed to increase his number of sit-ups due to his surgical damage, but he railed at John for the slightest whimper when he tried to slough-off on leg presses and stretching his tendons to regain flexibility.

Truthfully, John felt better now than he had since before he’d been shot.  He hated his daily tormentor whilst unable to control the warmth he experienced when Rat offered him the slightest praise.  It was difficult to reconcile the long-worshipped and esteemed man and the new and disturbing image of Sherlock’s father.

His body responded enthusiastically toward Rat’s blatant advances and innuendo.  His mind refused them in no uncertain terms.

  Rat took John’s rejection with a wry humor.  He had long known John’s buttons and in their off again on again years of history, Rat knew it was simply a matter of time.  He had no compunction against unashamedly seducing John Watson.  They had danced this dance before and he found the challenge entertaining. 

 John may be in love with his own son, but Sherrinford had prior claim and therefore John belonged to him, not Sherlock.  Oh he knew if the opportunity presented itself, he would lose the long term battle for John’s heart, but Rat had never existed in long term.  Now was his palate and he could paint with the masters of seduction.

John needed physical contact as much as he needed air and if there were only one dish in the kitchen, eventually John would hunger and feed.  Once John lost his cool control, there was nothing in the world that could match him.  Ford always regretted leaving John when the time required, but he had never suffered the loss like he had this time.  This time, he’d nearly lost John and it had a desperate bitter feel that had doubled as he’d watched John die again on the boat.

 Yes, he’d taken John to an undercover-op who played mild mannered animal doctor, but Rat knew the man was neither French nor a simple doctor of exotic creatures.  He’d desperately placed John in the hands of the finest surgeon he’d ever met.  John was good at trauma and field surgery in general, but this man’s code name was Resurrection La Gaule.  (which equaled ‘resurrection erection’ in a tongue in cheek off-color spook humor.) His skill was no joke, and his neurosurgical trail of career miracles included a half dead Rat raised from certain permanent impairment, brain function intact.

The pleasure of John’s annoyance and exasperation far outweighed Rat’s conscious aching over the fact John had no idea the trouble Rat went to in getting him to the best care possible.  One day, like he had with the wallet, Rat would reveal the truth if it suited his own purposes. 

When John was finally pronounced to be in mission ready condition, the information was conveyed with delicate breads, fine cheeses, richly sauced meat, three bottles of wine and seduction.  Rat counted on the adrenaline rush John would feel at successfully completing his recovery.  He was not disappointed.  He and John were whole again.   He played John Watson’s pleasure like he played his violin, skillfully, passionately, and without apologies.  But it wasn’t enough.  Ford wanted more.  He wanted John to be his, just for a little while.

John Watson was dead to the world and he was currently sleeping in the same fashion.  Rat studied his face as John snored hilariously.  He wondered when the last time had been, that John had submitted to such a relaxed state and allowed his body to hover voluntarily near such peace.

 It stroked the older man’s ego with delight that he could still do this for his little Rhino. John still felt safe in his presence.  John still wanted him too, despite his coy refusals.  The sounds John made in pleasure, even with all the restrictive rules, were igniting to Ford.  He wanted to do things for John that he would never forget.  He was sure this was their last affair, one way or another, and he wanted it to be beyond all they had ever had before.  

 Ford had many lovers of both genders in his life and he still adored his wife beyond all rational explanation.  His clandestine conjugal visits had been both few and dazzling over his many years of separation.  Any other woman would have never put up with his absence nor his many dalliances, but he had not married just any woman.  She was both a Holmes by marriage and distantly one by birth.  It took a great deal of mapping to connect the two houses, but his wife was part of the raven legend.

  His sons were cursed and blessed with the blood of the historical greatest chain of intellect ever known to Great Britain.  This close knit inter-marriage sometimes resulted in mishaps, of course.  There had been those in his ancestry who had been vilified, and some quite rightly so.  It had been whispered at one time that Sherlock was such an aberration and would be institutionalized before adulthood.  This terrible prediction had regretfully come to pass, temporarily, in his early adulthood.  But Ford had always maintained a firm belief that the boy was simply extraordinary and therefore difficult.  He visited Sherlock in that place of placid faces and calming colours and had secretly implemented the boy’s release.  For a time he’d regretted that because Sherlock had spent the next several years chasing destruction along with knowledge.

 Ford was a man of many exceptional encounters with sentiment,  but John was his favorite.  No sexual partner had ever equaled this small, not quite beautiful, but unquestionably attractive, man of seemingly average assets.   Maybe it was simply that John denied him what he wanted most. 

 His face had so many imperfections but the second it was animated by his spirit, John was warmer to Rat than the very sun.   Photos could never do him justice.  John could be a scary righteous little hound, a faithful dog and most of all, the wolf in wooly jumpers, but he would never be noticed when represented on high gloss paper.  

He found it amusing that John held the things between them as some lesser labeled encounter and told himself it was just casual.  It was true that in their past, they did not engage in penetrative relations, but if John were fellated by a woman, he would not clamor to his ridiculous definitions of what constitutes real sex.   John was a physician and certainly knew the professional description of sex.  Ford loved slightly pushing John into new territory so he could watch him struggle to rewrite his head-canon delineations of his masculinity. 

Rat knew that John didn’t want to be cast into the gay-pool.  He didn’t like labels that limited his hunting grounds.  John was crazy about women, he just liked men also.  He could settle down with a woman and happily never touch another bloke, but good upstanding John had yet to be faithful to a bloke.  So long as he classed blokes as not-real sex, he could justify the fact that he was less faithful to them.  John had always held himself to a certain moral standard and the fact he didn’t quite live up to his supposed principles created a discrepancy within himself.  Rat played with his neatly labeled boxes of John Watson.

John had no idea that he’d ever hurt Ford Hall, but it was the truth of the matter.  That didn’t mean Rat could give him up, but at the same time, it did give him pleasure in jerking John’s chain a bit.  He’d hurt John many times by walking away, but he had his reasons, whether John realized it or not.  He always came back too, but he had long ago lost any hope that it would ever be something stable or close to enduring.  Yes, Rat had left John many times, but John cheated on Rat so it evened out in the long run.

 He and John had to go through their squabbles and forge the path each time they again fell into the others arms.  But there would come a day that John would meet someone in a short skirt and things between them would begin to get taken for granted and Ford would leave and John would again swear his never-again tirade.  One day, Ford knew it would be true.  John would mean it someday. 

He thought he’d lost John this time.  When John was shot, it felt like the world was cloudy.  Then he’d gone back to London and it was similar in agony to if John had died.  It was worse because he was damaged. He’d seen John limping and looking so lost and hopeless and it had made Ford physically sick. 

He was nearly sure that Watson would soon be dead.  He’d seen the look before.  He wanted to help but knew he could not stand to see the man he knew, stoically put his service revolver between his lips and leave him.  Ford was no sentimental coward, but he ran away from this John and let him go, even if only in his mind.  He preferred to remember Rhino, elbow deep in guts, under fire and shouting sarcastic insults to people about their marksmanship.  That John had no fear.

Ford had gone a bit berky and made John a wallet.  After hunting down and murdering the pathetic sod who had destroyed his John, Ford had thrown himself into his work.  He’d expected to hear something when John realized what the wallet represented.  He’d feared it would not be enough, his little token of vengeance, but he was confused to find no word of any kind sent through channels from John Watson acknowledging his effort.  It never dawned on him, considering his propensity for taking trophies, that John would miss the significance of his gesture.

He waited but his sources said John had adapted well, turned his skills into a new career. 

 Then he’d made inquiry about his two sons and found his youngest to be living with his very own Rhino. There had been articles written and Ford had focused on the photos. John stood looking up at his very own son with eyes reflecting the same sort of tender affection John had once bestowed on his old Commander.  He’d felt both relief and a twinge of jealousy, laughing that John had replaced him with his offspring.  He had assumed John had made the connection.

He hoped it would be a matter of time before Mycroft tracked him down.  He was ready to end his adventure and in his deepest heart, thought it would be a grand thing if John found happiness within his own family.  His little spy-girl had had her own adventures wind to the inevitable peaceful life of a long time widow.  He’d contented himself that soon he too would be called to retire and he’d often imagined the reunion with his sons.  He had also vividly imagined Rhino’s reaction to the discovery he’d revealed on the night he’d inadvertently caused such harm with his last minute suicide plan.

He’d jumped to the conclusion that John and Sherlock were a pair, from all public innuendo and his own observation of body language in the increasingly regular media coverage of their exploits.  He read John’s blog, searching for clues, perhaps expecting to find confirmation and therefore extrapolating what he hoped to see.  He had hoped for a Christmas reunion, of sorts, but Mycroft was far too distracted to follow his obvious yellow brick road, so he’d carried on, as was expected of him.  Time passed and his son became the meteor he’d always known him to be.

He’d crossed paths with an Irishman.  Tiger had surfaced as his right hand man.  Tiger had spoken to Ford, out of loyalty. It was in Rome one night that his former sniper had appeared in his hotel. Tiger had warned him to get John and his lover out of his hair before it got ugly.

A week later, John had stepped into a game he didn’t understand and Seb had been in tears as he secretly told Ford that he would shoot John in the heart when he got ordered to do so.  He said he would have no choice and that his boss had every intention of destroying a certain blond doctor because he intended to woo some arrogant posh detective into his control and that meant John’s life was ticking away. 

 

_I'm gonna live, I'm gonna fly,_

_I'm gonna fail, I'm gonna die,_

_I'm gonna live, I'm gonna fly_

_I'm gonna fail, gonna die, die, die, die_

_Oh No!  --_ Marina and the Diamonds

 

 

 

_____________________________________________________________

_**Hello, I want you to know my stories are not abandoned.  I am dealing with several signifigant life changes all at once and I am posting this chapter, but don't expect it to be at my normal standards.  I hope you like it anyway, I know how frustrating waiting for updates can be.** _

 


	12. Silence and tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baggage plays on the relationship between John and Rat.

In Silence and Tears Chapter 35/12

 

 

**_When we two parted_ **

**_In silence and tears,_ **

**_Half broken-hearted_ **

**_To sever for years,_ **

**_Pale grew thy cheek and cold,_ **

**_Colder thy kiss;_ **

**_Truly that hour foretold_ **

**_Sorrow to this._ **

**When We Two Parted -  by George Gordon Byron**

 

 

 Ford absolutely returned to London, despite what he’d said in the past.  Poor John would never know that he was the person who insisted Irene call the consulting criminal at the perfect moment.  No hell on earth would have protected Little Jimmy from the big bad Rat if he had actually harmed John or his idiot offspring. 

He’d been distracted by a political skirmish that threatened to give certain sudo-religious affiliations another solid base of operations in the world and worse still, a new leader with a surplus of immense resources and a more dynamic fanaticism than even his recently fallen martyr.  The Zoo was technically Rat’s employer, but his freelance services were often the leverage needed to secure indebted but hostile allies for her Majesty.   In fact, Mycroft’s spectacular rise to the position he so casually enjoyed, was in part thanks to a father that Mycroft had yet to abduce existed.

He’d taken chances to implement the measures that had resulted in his son taking the point in the clan of ravens, but Mycroft was an asset to the crown by his own right.  Rat had provided opportunities for Mycroft to achieve, but he’d rarely been disappointed with the boy’s sharp grasp of subtle political games or the art of intimidation.

  He was proud of Mycroft for the most part, though his ability to maneuver had often hindered Rat’s own commitments.  He had become rather disappointed that Mycroft had failed to make the necessary leaps of reasoning it would require for Rat to have his cover revealed.  Mycroft was now in a position in which he had more than the necessary authority and clearances to welcome his dead father back into the world of the living.  Too bad he had simply failed to give the matter his attention.

Rat had never made this information easy, but he hadn’t covered his trail with such impenetrable force that his son could not follow the compass and adjust to true north.  On the day that Sherlock had made his international headlines and Rat had been in cover far too deep to impose upon his own resources to determine the merit of Sherlock’s demise, Rat had experienced such profound grief that he’d blown his operation.

 He’d rushed to safe-haven and then made for London as if he were a common fellow with an actual identity and mundane life.  He went in disguise, of course, but at the moment, he’d honestly believed his youngest son had followed the path he himself had not actually taken.

It didn’t take him long to learn the facts and he’d found the idea of Sherlock actually following in his own faked-death footsteps both amusing and moderately flattering in a way that would have made Sherlock’s  Mother frown severely.  He felt foolish for having jumped to conclusions on the basis of the normally witless media.  He attended the funeral, purely to get a glimpse of his darling Merletta, for whom he still carried a brilliant torch and yet his eyes had been instead, locked on the broken remnant of John Watson.

Merletta was, after all, Merletta.  She would gaze at the realm with her cool green eyes and her world would be set to right before she chipped her face-cake for the night.  She would only pine when nobody might be looking.  She had known for years that her husband was alive, but she had played her role of widow with great dignity and tenacious resolve. She had, in fact, used her own resources to track him down and bloody well have a row whilst in the field and under fire. Merletta was not just any woman, she was the singular woman of all time.

  Oh, she had other lovers, he could expect no less, but she never had another love.  She looked beautiful that sunny spring day as her son was supposedly lowered deep into the earth. Their eyes had locked and her lips curled as she nodded to him.  She had slid up next to him at the small gathering and he allowed her to see him for a split second.

“So good of you to come,” She’d whispered with genuine pleasure.

“You know this is a farce?” He’d whispered as he pretended to kiss her cheek.

“He was always just like you,” She’d softly murmered as a complaint but truly meant as a compliment.

He’d smiled at her, just the way she’d always liked, and replied, “Only his naughty bits, it was your contribution that made him dazzling.”

“You are getting old and sentimental, my dear.  Do come home soon, or I shall wed some horrid toad just to annoy you.” She had winked.

“Soon.”

“Do keep him under wing, Sherri.  He’s yours now.” She had patted his arm and moved on to the other mourners.

 Mycroft had caught his eye, making his way toward him, a look of determined nosiness set on his otherwise bland features and his umbrella speaking volumes of irritation by the way it tapped precisely on the side of his highly polished shoe.  His mother speaking confidences to a stranger at her son’s internment did not pass Mycroft’s notice and only his need to make graceful inquiry kept him from at once confronting said stranger when the servants couldn’t identify him at a glance.   All he needed was for his wife’s story of with whom she spoke and his own, not to mesh precisely. Rat had quickly made his exit, only to then spend a half hour dodging his son’s amateurish junior minions.   

He had planned to go home one day.  He needed Mycroft to figure it out.  He needed his son’s resources to get out cleanly and quietly.  He had become something of an entity unto himself, so long as he was active, but he knew that it would take dynamite to pry him from the arms of his controllers.  A change of venue would be needed before he made any steps toward exit.  He needed Mycroft to recruit him and so far his son was obviously oblivious.  This however, changed the game, and his youngest son needed his help far more than his oldest son needed his curiosity mollified.

He had watched out for Sherlock.  Sherlock was resourceful and rarely needed assistance, but he did make mistakes and when he did they were spectacular.  God but Sherlock had gone off the deep end in South America.  Ford had even been appalled.  The balloon animals Sherlock had left, made from his marks intestines, were poignantly off the rail even in the mind of Sherrinford Holmes, consummate collector of human keepsakes.  Oh, yes, he needed to keep a close eye on his son.

 What had made him follow John instead that summer night was hard to explain.  He knew the look he’d feared before had gone nuclear.  He’d seen it often enough in his business.  Movies called it the ‘thousand yard stare’ but that was only part of what he saw on Watson’s face.  One foot in the void and the urge to dance, would have been his description.  Lust for death, Soul in the grave, broken hearted, or walking the mountains of the moon all meant John Watson.

The Rat had been off leash for a while, begging off for his supposed grief, and numerous pet projects Control objectively needed addressed, but could not appear to have connection with.  He was in London; it was a beautiful night. Sherrinford Holmes was high on a smooth transaction that led to a very bad man no longer breathing and he’d decided to try to snap John out of his moony downward spiral by offering him his old position, so to speak.  He knew he’d be easy to push through the system because of his prior service.  Things had not worked out quite how he had expected. 

John had been so very drunk. He had to step in.

  John is a mouthy drunk but he also has no boundaries when it comes to trouble and those combined, were a very dangerous recipe any day, but add in his recent attitude and four teen boys could be goaded into more than a beer-money roll.  They just wanted his cash, but John had grinned and decided to end his night with a dance for life instead.  John had been far too drunk to notice the home-made and crudely fashioned mace that arched toward his skull.

  He’d drunkenly taunted them and hurt them enough to enrage them.  They were in the process of dragging him to a more private location whilst John struggled with consciousness and the four young perverts had relieved their victim of his trousers when Rat had finally stepped in.  

John had been utterly still, face down with a boot at his neck, a knee between his shoulder blades and his eyes were wide open and glimmering with fear and a dreadful resolve. As the first had knelt unceremoniously between his legs, the gruff teen told John of the lessons he intended to enact to expunge his sisters disparaged virtue.

John’s eyes had met his former commanders for a split second and yet he had not shouted for help or made any gesture that said he acknowledged his presence.  His eyes had filled with tears and he’d closed them as he spoke,  “Your sister likes my cock better than any of yours and as soon as you little bastards get done, I’ll be giving her a knock up.”

One of them laughed and knelt beside John, a blade in his hand. “You won’t be having a chance, mate.  Shoulda’ just forked out a few quid.  We still nicked that, but now you die soon as we quit finding your ass worth the trouble of holding you down.  You just meat now, old man.  Another word and I start with your tongue.”

 If John had been sober, these boys would have had no chance of causing him injury, but there was something more that had brought the former soldier here.  It was in John’s eyes.  He may have been concussed, but that really wasn’t the case, but John offered the paltry struggle of a child, not the fight of his Rhino. 

John was here for the pain.  He didn’t want this, but there was a resolute acceptance in his eyes that proved he didn’t ‘not’ want the outcome to be heinous and better yet deadly. 

  Ford should have known better, but even the great Rat could act like a common rat when the temptation was sung sweetly.  He would never forgive himself, but there was no reason to fully explain what occurred during the doctor’s memory lapse.  He had saved the man from a much worse probable outcome, but he could not quite manage to justify that night to himself and he would never speak of it to John.

He wished John could want him, no, demand him that way whilst sober.  Sherrinford had basked in every glorious second of that night and yet he knew that the man he adored would feel taken advantage of in the morning. At least he would be alive to be angry.  What if their activity pushed John to his limits?  Ford had made an unforgivable pact with himself and after a thoroughly devastating search for understanding, otherwise known as snooping, Sherrinford had made his decision.

He had saved John, then betrayed him because he let his emotions and the scene he’d just witnessed get under his skin.  He knew John was a mess, but when he’d begged, it had broken something in Ford and he’d tried to say no at first, but it was John and he failed the test of temptation.

He’d planned to stay but when Mycroft showed up at John’s flat, escape was really his only option.  He waited for John to contact him but when he realized it was improbable, he grieved for John and then the inevitable call of the crown pried more time and more doubt into his thoughts.

 He’d left John to his fate after that, too ashamed of his actions and too afraid John would repeat his own to stay.  It seemed ok.  John had left him no death threats.  Ford lay low but John sat in his flat at night and Ford couldn’t stand to watch John give his hi-power mouth to mouth each night. 

 John’s future had soon encompassed the attention of a young woman.   He’d left before he was tempted to make John aware of their recent encounter.  He offered what comfort he could, but he still had obligations to meet and the hope he’d had to take John with him was unrealistic at best, an old man’s folly wrapped in sentimental twaddle.

He’d managed to follow much of his son’s activities.  It had kept his attention far from thoughts of a certain broken doctor.  His controllers unsurprisingly were sending him on missions at odds with Sherlock’s purposes, but he’d still managed to keep an eye on both of his son’s.  He knew Mycroft was heavily involved in the mess with Moriarty and conveniently the strands of that web were so vast that he could skew the covert assessments of individuals entangled enough to justify his involvement. 

His placement in London, coordinating with Sherlock’s revelation to John, had been an accident, however utilizing all opportunities was second nature and in this case had worked in his favor.  If Sherlock had accepted John’s offer, Sherrinford would have never made contact.  But, he’d watched Sherlock enter the flat and he’d seen John’s reaction to what he assumed was a robbery.  It was purely instinct that had made him follow the couple to the park and hear the astounding exchange. 

John had actually run past Rat’s hiding place when he’d exited the hourly dive Sherlock had secured for their meeting.  He’d watched John stand in the rain, evaluating his body language and knowing Rhino was lost to all rational acceptances that he’d, again, been left behind. It was odd.  Rat had left this man behind so many times, yet had never witnessed John’s reaction to the event.  How could he have done that to John?  How had he never seen

 He knew Sherlock would be watching, so he’d sent John across town with a puzzle. He was not surprised that John had taken his bait.  He’d followed him in another taxi and then bought coffee as if he’d been awaiting his arrival. 

John stirred at the touch on his shoulder.  He inhaled deeply and scrunched his face up before asking, “How long was I asleep?”

“Not long.  It’s our last night here.  I thought we could…”he trailed off letting his hands do the talking.

“Oh god. What the hell,” John replied with a knowing smirk. “You may as well give up this time. Not happening.”

“What is it? Obviously you want to,” came the whispered suggestion accompanied by a hand squeezing the evidence of John’s interest.

“Ford.  You know how I feel.  Always have.  But you always leave. “

“Because you always cheat with some tit-packing trollup and expect me to …”

John leans up and rolls to his elbows, confused.  “Cheat on you?  We are not a couple.  We are friends with benefits.  That’s all.  And every time I blow that and care and the bloody second you figure it out you can’t get away from me fast enough.  Yes, I like women.  They are beautiful creatures and a whole other world.  But, don’t tell me I expect too much of you then try to wheedle me into something, that means something to me, just because you are selfish.”

“Selfish?  You think I am a selfish lover?” Sherrinford honestly looked horrified.

“I didn’t say that, but you are selfish,” John says sitting up now, eyebrows down and anger building.

“ I didn’t realize I had ever failed you in that area, despite your ridiculously childish rules.  Tell me, do they come in to play for all your male lovers or do you deny me only?” Ford couldn’t ever remember feeling more anger directed at John.

“You know I have never done that.  Not with anyone.  Why is this even an issue? If you want to discuss childish--”

“Don’t play the virgin, John.  I know better,” Ford said, face alight with wrath.

“Then you are wrong.” John’s voice remained calm, but there was a hollow rasp in it.  His eyes flitted away as if looking for escape before returning to meet Sherrinford’s with steel determination and a glare of hatred.  

Ford smiled like an evil cat and murmured, “Am I?  How would you even know?  Do you even remember all your lovers?”

John’s face grew red, “That’s none of your business.  In fact, what I do or don’t do is officially none of your concern…ever again.”  He stood up and headed for the door.

Rats face fell directly into his ice cold mask and his words blasted the man in front of him like rock salt. He too stood but didn’t step toward John, his chin lifted slightly and his eyes narrowed in a familiar deduction manner. “And off-out you go.  I suppose you are right. And, it was none of my concern the night I followed you and watched you offer yourself, not to mention you very life, to four young hoodlums.  You didn’t even fight.”

John shook his head in utter disapproval and silent disappointment, marked only by a minor pursing of lips and an appalled sound similar to clearing the back of his throat.

John’s mocking sound and annoyance further flamed Rat’s anger, but it only manifest in the change of his tone, his face didn’t offer a twitch of emotion.  “  I should have just stood by and watched them each take you while you blubbered on the filthy urine and rubbish soaked mews, then stood by and observed them slit your mouthy, drunken throat when they were sated?  Is that your underlying truth Rhino, my baby, my friend, my brother, my sometimes lover?  You’d far prefer that sort of attention to mine?  I wonder, John, how often were you an ally slut, just lucky to have survived, but because you don’t remember, think you can tell me…it doesn’t count.”  Ford regretted the words level of harmful intent as soon as he spoke them.  His breath caught and he seemed to return to himself, horrified by what sentiment had just loosed from his tongue.   

Six heartbeats seemed to mark an hour before John began to tremble slightly.

 

**_In secret we met_ **

**_In silence I grieve,_ **

**_That thy heart could forget,_ **

**_Thy spirit deceive._ **

**_If I should meet thee_ **

**_After long years,_ **

**_How should I greet thee?_ **

**_With silence and tears._ **

**When We Two Parted--  by George Gordon Byron**

_I know, it is shocking – but these were close to ready and I thought I’d go ahead without obsessing and publish.  Hope you enjoy.  Next chapter may happen soon as well._


	13. Like a Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherrinford bicker about past and present.

**_Chapter 13_ **

**_Like a soldier_ **

****

****

**_First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,_ **

**_For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts --_ **

**_Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts --_ **

**_An' it's bad for the young British soldier._ **

**_Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . ._ **

****

**_When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt --_ **

**_Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,_ **

**_For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,_ **

**_An' it crumples the young British soldier._ **

**_Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . ._ **

**_\--The Young British Soldier by Rudyard Kipling_ **

 

The words jolted John as if they had been said at the end of a whip.  He braced himself on the doorframe and sagged.  He stood silently except for his breath moving in and out in fury.  He was trembling with bitterness by the time he could reply. “You are right.  You always are.  I don’t remember.  And it doesn’t matter.  It didn’t matter then did it?” John turned and his eyes accused as his hands began unbuttoning his shirt.

Sherrinford watched, trying to figure out what John was doing now, lamenting his words already.  “It does matter,” he said low and cautious.

“Nope.  I was dead then.  I’m dead now.” John dropped his trousers and his pants, stepping out and pulling off his socks.  He stood naked; the scars on his body nothing to the scars in his eyes.

“You aren’t dead.  Why are you undressed?”

“ You have demanded for years. So, why not?  No reason to faff around about it. You want me?  It’s nothing.  Couldn’t respect a no.” John spread his arms in a belligerent come- and-get-me fashion.

Sherrinford dropped his eyes to the floor and sighed heavily, “Not.  Not like this, John.”

 John snickered and turned slightly in annoyed laughter, looking up at the ceiling, as if for guidance.  “ It was you.  You even told me.  Oh, now you’re silent, is it? Didn’t think I’d put it together, did you?” John grinned at him and shook his head.  It was a painful expression and conveyed far more sorrow than if the man had broken down and wept.  It was a smile of the ultimate betrayal and loss of will to fight. 

Rat took a very deep breath analyzing his friend’s seeming defeat and attempting to make some connection to his unfathomable actions. His voice was low and soft now, a whispered grumble acknowledging that he knew he was treading on very delicate ice, “What do you mean?”

John took one step forward and pointed at Ford. “I mean, I don’t remember a damned thing about that night.  But I do remember the next morning.   So, you saved me, but it wasn’t good enough for you to stick around…after.  I’m a…no…I _used t_ o be a doctor.  I learned a few things from your son.  He seems to take after you a lot.  So, take anything you want, my friend.  I’m a worthless, dead hunk of rubbish to both of you.”  John flopped down on the bed and laced his fingers behind his head.  He spoke to the ceiling, quiet, calm and without emotion. “Anything you want.  And then you can send me off to kill my brother to save your son, because you can’t do it, can you?”

“John, no.  Please, stop.  Let me explain…”

“Nothing to explain, Commander.  Just do me a solid, if I don’t die trying to fix this little mess, when you finish with me this round, at least treat me with the same kindness they offered.  Make sure I’m all the way dead this time.  Because if you don’t, I’ll find someone who will and I’d rather it be you.” 

Sherrinford sat on the bed next to John.  He reached out to touch John, sprawled before him so full of beauty in his righteous anger.   His hand hovered for a second then he thought better of it and rested it primly on his knee.  “You’re right.  I don’t think I can do it.  I can’t kill Tiger.  I’m afraid, John.  I don’t even know my son.  What if, I falter?  What if I look into Seb’s eyes and hesitate and it costs me my son?  You were supposed to be dead right now. Do you realize that? I don’t think he could do it.  I think Seb failed, or at least has hesitated for an exceptional amount of time.  Sherlock screwed up.  Seb knows he survived. He has had opportunity, John.  Hell, when you were in that park, you were wide open.  He didn’t have to do it himself, you see, he is no longer required to dirty his own hands if he chooses not to. Sherlock was acting with a desperation I have never seen, yet he has now changed tactics entirely.  When we faked your suicide, I knew Sherlock’s plan.  It was not brilliant or survivable.  But it probably would have worked.  To protect you at least.  But, I could never face my wife if I let it happen.  I certainly couldn’t stop him.   I thought that if you did go with him, it would change his mind.  But, the second he left that room alone, and I saw you standing in the rain, looking forever broken, I knew that I had to step in.”  He glanced at John, unsure how much John was putting together in his head.

“God, I hate you,” John whispered. 

“Yes, well, that’s because you never quite seem to understand me.”

“Would help if you didn’t lie to me.  Hard to understand someone who would save me in an alley and effectively take the same route and leave without a word.  I knew I’d been with someone.  That wasn’t the only time it had occurred since he…after I thought he’d died because of me.  Mycroft, intervened too, once…well his men did.  Both of you knew Sherlock was alive.  Both of you saw, where his death put me.  But not one person had a second’s pity.”

“Don’t be stupid.  Of course I pitied you.  How can you not know, after everything, how much I…regard you?  It took me six weeks and two very good young men to track down the man who shot you.  I watched you fall in love, twice, and I still came for you.” Rat’s brows were furrowed and his mouth pulled down in misery.

“And fucked me and left me to die again.  Just like you always do.  I always knew you couldn’t love me, but I did think you and your bloody regard would have at least stopped you from…that.” John blinked and coughed away tears.

“Oh, for God’s sake, I didn’t exactly rape you, John.” 

“Really?  If that were true, you wouldn’t have acted like a thief in the night.  You would have been downstairs showing off on that damned violin of Sherlock’s or nosing through my things and glowing with triumph and hoping for more.  You would have stuck around and whispered that Sherlock isn’t dead and I was not crazy and offered to help me track him down.  But no.  You got what you always wanted, then lost interest and I hated myself a little more.  Funny, I thought of you and how I had said no and thought of Sherlock and how I had never had the nerve to tell him and then I had let some unknown faceless jerk…and I didn’t even remember.  I’ve always been a slut to you…this just clarifies your precious regard.” John made a gesture like he was waiting and to get on with it.

“No.  John.  You have always pushed me away.  You are an addictive little bastard and I would get so wrapped up in you…then some skirt would catch your appreciation and you made sure I knew that in your eyes, we were nothing.  You killed me every time and when I couldn’t stand it another second and I left, you played the wounded puppy.  But I always came back.”

“I never left.  Maybe if I had known you felt that way…” John popped off with venom.

 Sherrinford  can’t help the way his voice goes low and dangerous, but John can push his buttons like no other. “If?  Oh, yes because ‘no strings’ was my rule, was it?  I wasn’t even on your list of emergency contacts.  You had been on mine for years.  You still are, in fact.  You nearly died in that desert and again in hospital of infection and do you know how I found out?  I came back and you were not where you were supposed to be.  I had to hear it from Mathison. Our dearest Bat-shit-crazy member and he said you acted like a damned recruit with a death wish out there that day.  What possessed you to volunteer to be a medic for those Rangers…bloody American wankers…walk into an ambush like that and then play hero. I don’t know what the hell you were thinking to this day.”

John finally looked over at Sherrinford.  He swallowed, “I was thinking…I was thinking that no matter what I ever did…one day you would never come back you damned idiot.  You were two months overdue. I was sure you were never coming back…and I’d never know.  You’d done this to me for so long and I didn’t act one bit different out there.  I was happy and it was just … a stray lucky shot.  They were scared kids, old women and sick people … it all just went wrong.  We went to help and it just… we set up and within ten minutes we were under fire. I tried to get to cover, but she couldn’t run.  I got hit carrying her…she had lost most of her foot and I couldn’t just…when I fell, her grandmother screamed.  The girl …I saw her crawl away from me. I hoped it was my blood she was covered in but I won’t ever know  and the next thing I knew, I was on a respirator. ”

“Yeah? This was his revelation.  ‘ Welcome home, Commander.  Rhino? Might be dead.  I think he’s dead.  I don’t remember when, been a month or so.  Shot four inches from his heart and last I heard he was cooking with fever. Yeah, I think he died. There should be a memo somewhere around here…’  Bat couldn’t even remember where they shipped you.  That was a really good day.” He looked at his naked friend, widening his eyes for emphasis. 

“Bat always was about half-cocked. Must not have been too bad, you never showed your face.” John closed his eyes for a second to control his emotions.

“Apologies.  I was upset.  I won’t lie about how cross I was at the time.  I had a bit of explaining to do after six weeks AWOL and then during my period of reprimand, I spent that time tracking down the human rubbish that dared to take one of my babies.  Ask Leopard or the Elephant, they went with me.”

“Yeah, lovely gesture.  Hunting down some shop-keeper with a lucky shot and making fashion accessories out of him.   You ever think how much seeing you would have meant, instead?  I thought you probably didn’t even notice I was gone.  You know who did try to see me?  Tiger.  Nurse said he made quite a scene, in fact, and he was on the lamb at the time.  He came, anyway.  And now, I am going to try to shoot him to save your son, who I love, and have never touched even once, because he, like his father, is a selfish thoughtless git.”

“I have never been thoughtless.”

John’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Sherrinford as if he were possibly senile.  “You let a French veterinarian cut on me and would have let him muck around in my brain … that somehow reminds me of your son, who poisoned me with an experimental drug from Baskerville that was known to cause frontal lobe damage.  Just so he could observe if I too, would see a monster.”

Sherrinford sighed and rolled his eyes, “I’m sure you are exaggerating.  And as for the horse doctor, it’s his cover.  He’s a spook.  Ever heard of the doctor we call Resurrection La Gaule?  You have no idea what I went through to get you there.  I didn’t think you survived the journey and I had no way of checking.  We opened that crate of garlic and I…”his eyes wondered off distantly and his jaw worked as he held his breath for several seconds. “I was violently ill…I have seen men torn apart.  I have eaten human flesh, and you know of my small collection.  Nothing gets to me.  Nothing.  But one dead John Hamish Watson and my carefully manicured façade is shattered for all time. You were barely alive, John.  My fault and we pried that lid up, and…I thought…no, I was certain that I had …left you to die alone in the dark …put you in a coffin still breathing.  I didn’t ever mean for this to all go so pair shaped.”

Rat looks down at John and his eyes dance with emotion.  John doesn’t know how to react.  He watches Ford’s eyes return to elsewhere as if he’s no longer in the room.  John’s jaw clenches less as he waits out the silence.

Ford continues and his voice is nearly a whisper, “I knew how very drunk you were that night and I had noble intentions.  I cannot justify my actions, but I know they were not as cruel as you imagine.  I couldn’t get the picture out of my head that it might have been weeks before I knew that you had been murdered…like that, if I had not happened to have followed a lark and intervened.  Told myself it was fate.  I got you home and cleaned up.  You were very forward, John.  You were so happy to see me.  You cried about Sherlock.  I said no.  You…begged.  I told you we would talk about it in the morning.  You told me.  You told me that after everything, if I said no, then there would never be another chance.  I told you again that we would talk in the morning.  I thought you had passed out and I did go tune Sherlock’s violin.  I meant to play it.  But I was curious and I looked through my son’s room.  I found your bag and your note.  I heard something and went up the stairs to check on you.”

“I black out, but I never really pass out,” John says quietly.

“Yes, obviously.  You were on the floor and when you looked up, you took the gun out of your mouth and stated that I wasn’t really there and pointed the gun at me and pulled the trigger.  I reacted just in time and crawled to you as you laughed and said ‘That proves it. I never miss.’ And pointed it, still smoking just behind and below your left ear and closed your eyes.  You said you were sorry and I screamed to you that Sherlock Holmes was alive.  You smiled and it gave me just enough time to leap and in your state, it was still a struggle to disarm you.  I was sitting on you and again you began to weep.  Not really my area, but I kissed you.  You know, even drunk and weepy, I find you most charming.  The things you said to me.  John, I am sorry, I know it is the excuse of a cad.  Yet, I allowed it to continue.  It was lust and it was selfish. I had planned to stay in truth, but a car pulled up outside at half-eleven and I did not dare allow Mycroft to glimpse me.  Not in that situation.  I assume he came due to the fact I had jammed his security cameras.  There was no time to wake you and explain, or leave a note.  I barely had time to grab my clothing.”

“Ok.  I do know he woke me up.  I was still drunk and he spent most of the afternoon lecturing me between my heaves. There were a lot of his people in and out of my flat. Explains why they came.  That whole ordeal was about your little phone trick?   But you could have come back when he left.  Called me.  Texted me.  Something.”  John lay on the bed as hostile as a siren, anger radiating from his skin and his eyes set to the ceiling, swimming with betrayal.

“Yes.  Instead, I waited to hear from you.  It dawned on me that perhaps that night was indeed…goodbye.  I left the country, because I couldn’t bear to watch.  Lots of work kept me from mourning something I had no way of stopping.  The next time I surfaced and made tentative inquiry of your welfare, you had met a young woman and appeared to have ceased this nonsense.  Very odd dresser, but she was still quite lovely.  Molly, you said her name was?”

“Yes.  Molly the liar.  My beautiful, sweet, innocent liar.  Helped Sherlock. Knew the whole time.  Not a bloody word.”

“So, she saved Sherlock’s life and saved yours with her silence. And for that crime…”Rat turned his head and raised an eyebrow as if he didn’t approve.  “Or, perhaps she was just a dud shag and this was all a big opportunity for exit?”

“God, no.” John smiled wistfully, and cleared his throat, “She’s a little wildcat.  She just hadn’t had a lot of luck with … picking someone who – “

“I don’t care.  Please explain no further,” Ford cut in and glared at John.

“You actually sounded jealous just now.  Never noticed it before.  It’s weird.”

Ford snorted through his nose then lifted his chin and coldly asked, “You were with him weren’t you?  You and Tiger?  I never believed the story you told me about the roof.  All this time and you were with him too.”

John looked up and sighed. He nodded and blushed as he said quietly, “Yeah.  Every time you left me. He got me through it.  Every time.  And now, I have to choose him or Sherlock.  Funny thing, when you look at stuff, if I were loyal to the person who was most loyal to me, I might have a very hard time with that.”

“If it comes down to that, are you saying you can’t or won’t?  John, we need to be very clear here.” Ford said with a cautious smile of blandness that for the first time gave John a Mycroft’s-Father-too gateway and chills at that comparison.

 John tilted his head and smiled back bitterly. His voice grew hard and slightly amused, “ On the other hand if my heart were the only one selecting among the three of you…it would always be Sherlock.  No matter what he thinks of me, no matter that he’s your son and no matter that he’s probably the greatest arsehole to ever exist.  I would kill for him, die for him and forgive him anything because I have no choice.  I can exist without him, but I have concluded from extensive research that I just don’t bloody well want to.”

“Thank you. I am sorry I needed to ask, but you have always been rather unpredictable.”

“  So, there it is.  Fuck me. Don’t fuck me. I don’t care, but I will save him, no matter what and when I’m done with that and the great Consulting Detective blows me off again and Molly hates me and you take off and I have murdered a man who you think maybe couldn’t murder me out of loyalty.  Don’t bother with any souvenirs, though I guess my skull on Sherlock’s mantle might give you both a laugh.  Just let my sister think all of me remained in the coffin and don’t tell her about your ghoulish collection or Sherlock’s fridge etiquette.  Or hey, already dead, just let me rot where I fall and walk away.”

“John, please don’t be so maudlin, it doesn’t suite you.”

“Why aren’t you fucking me?  Thought it was such a big deal. Not any fun if you have my consent?”

“No.  It seems to have lost its magic.  The women?  Well, that I felt rather foolish about.  Tiger?  That I missed entirely.  Honestly John, I am so thankful I was unaware all these years.  Never fear my unwanted passion will again be aimed in you direction.  Problem solved.”

Sherrinford stood and exited the room without so much as a backwards glance.  He paused in the doorway, “Should this endeavor prove fatal for either of us, I do mean for you to know that every moment with you was important to me.  My deepest apologies that I failed to understand the sentiment had no reciprocation.”

 

John sighed, defeated, “Ford, look, I am sorry. “

He didn’t look, he simply bowed his head and mumbled, “Yes, as am I.  Get some rest, Captain Watson.”   

 

**_If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,_ **

**_Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:_ **

**_So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,_ **

**_And wait for supports like a soldier._ **

**_Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . ._ **

****

**_When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,_ **

**_And the women come out to cut up what remains,_ **

**_Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains_ **

**_An' go to your Gawd like a soldier._ **

**_\--The Young British Soldier by Rudyard Kipling_ **

 

* * *

**_A very rough chapter to pull off.  Lot's of baggage and complex issues.  Hope you like it._ **


	14. Secret Agent Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns of the first mission.

 

* * *

 

**_Beware of pretty faces that you find._ **

**_A pretty face can hide an evil mind._ **

**_Oh, be careful what you say,_ **

**_Or you will give yourself away._ **

**_Odds are you won't live to see tomorrow._ **

**_Secret Agent Man_ **

**_Secret Agent Man_ **

**_They've given you a number and taken away your name._ **

****

**_Secret Agent Man  - Johnny Rivers_ **

 

The next morning was excruciating.   They were painfully polite and formal and it felt exhausting.  John was cross and Rat was aloof and distant when he wasn’t being critical.  They packed for what Ford called their first order of business and John refused to indulge in demanding to know any of the particulars. 

They spent half a day on a train before they checked into a room in a run-down section of Lugano, Switzerland.  They were lucky to have found anything because the Music Festival was taking place.   A few hours later, Sherrinford had procured a violin and he ran up and down the major scales at a frantic pace for nearly three hours.

John riffled through brochures meant for tourists, feigning interest and ignoring the noise with a placid irritation.  A knock sounded at the door and when John answered it, two garment bags were thrust into his hands.  He held them up with a cock of his eyebrow as the only question.

“What?  You don’t think I can be on stage dressed like this, do you?”

“You’re going on stage?” John said, making a face conveying that the information was news to him. 

“Of course. Why else would we be at a Music festival?”

John shrugged and tossed the bags on one of the beds as he said, “No idea.  Thought we were tracking killers now, not making musical debuts.”

Sherrinford snorted, and unzipped one of the bags.  “Hardly my debut, John.”  He picked up the unzipped bag, moving it to the other bed and pointed to the remaining one as he stated, “That one is for you.”

“Oh.  Good then.  Should I be trying to find a clarinet?  I doubt my playing will do more than turn a few snobs into killers…” He smiled waiting for Rat to tell him what was going on.

“God no.  I have heard you play that squeak generator and have no wish to torture anyone this evening.  You will be in the audience.  Bring your gun.  May as well stick to music you play well,” Ford said without humor.

“Great. Ok then.  Any idea who I should aim at? Or did you just want me to randomly pick off any musical competition?”  John slowly unzips his own bag and chuckles at the obviously expensive suit.

 A photograph flutters haphazardly toward the bed showing a man with a severe face and a snotty sneer gracing his face.  His arms are crossed and he glares haughtily with a conductor’s baton casually grasp in his fingers. “My job is to see that this person survives the evening.  Your job will be to watch for Tiger, and anyone who may be in his company.  When the man in this photo comes on stage, there will be an attempted assassination.  Those who do not wish to kill him or help achieve it, will seek to kidnap him.”

“Ok, so we could warn him, maybe?” John asks studying the photos.

“Wouldn’t matter.  He would go ahead and conduct anyway.  Maestros tend to be egotistical bastards,” Ford explained.

 

“And how does this fellow’s survival link to us protecting Sherlock?”

“That’s where it could get a little complicated.   Sherlock is here to see that he dies and that his killer is caught along with several of his murderer’s trusted companions.  Her majesty has interest in these people and can’t catch them at what they do best,” Sherrinford hands John more photos.

 

“So, Sherlock is here?  And he wants this man to die so that the people who kill him can be arrested.”  John takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.  “He’s here, right now?  He’s actually still safe then?”

 “As safe as my son can manage.  He will be positioned in the most dangerous possible place and so safe is a relative word.   We are here to insure that never takes place and to try to keep him alive as wel,l if possible.  The featured cello player is one of ours as well.  We are to protect the two operatives and stop the assassination.  We are the swing vote, so to speak. This whole operation is an onion.”

“So how many layers does this onion have?  How do we know friend from foe?” John asks. 

 “I have no idea, but I have spotted three distinct interests since we got off the train.  There were Russian’s in the lobby, and despite the trinkets, they didn’t look like tourists to me.  I spied two Hollywoods texting at the café across the street, in their shark suits and sun glasses.  Rumor has it there are others.”

“But we don’t know who our allies are?” John frowns.

“We don’t have any allies, Rhino.  Hell, this has Mycroft’s fingers all over it and we are in direct conflict with their goals.”

“So even our guys are not our guys?” John shakes his head and bites his lip. 

 

“What it amounts to. Don’t worry, that’s basically the standard package in my business.  All you need to know is, Maestro lives, Sherlock lives and Tiger or his people better hope they get arrested.  As for the others, if they look like they are shooting at you, or considering it, call them fair game.” Ford explains simply.

“What is it about?  Who or what has all these people wanting a music conductor?  Doesn’t seem like a particularly dangerous occupation.  Bit on the academic, dull side of life I would imagine.”  John is genuinely confused.  “And why would Moriarty’s bunch want him?”  

“Actually, Tigers bunch are allies the first part of this round.  Surprise.  The men Tiger sends, are dangerous to Sherlock, yes, but they want the great conductor alive.  They can be arrested, but they are not to be harmed for sport, unless they go after Sherlock.  We hope to gain a few of his people for her majesty’s pleasure too, if we can take them alive.  Preferably without Sherlock or his compatriots getting themselves killed in the process.” Sherrinford can see that John is further confused.

“Look, you know about the code.  The one that could magically break in to any system.”

“It doesn’t exist.” John stated quickly.

“No, not at present.  But, if it ever does have a chance to exist, Mr. Conductor there will be driving the train.”

“Is he some sort of secret hacker on the side?  Music doesn’t pay the bills?”

“He is nothing special when it comes to his skills navigating computers, but there is a mathematical connection to music, John.  And he has made a discovery.” Rat’s eyes go distant and his face softens as he speaks of music, “ There is a correlation to music and the binary code of computers.  There are… how do I explain?  There are songs that inspire people’s hearts.  Music is more than a list of notes and rhythm to be put in order.  There are resonances so soothing, so mystical, like the well played sound waves of a violin, which to our human perception evokes something beyond conventional understanding.  We feel more of everything. Our heart rates change; our minds expand.  For a moment, we are connected to a greater world.  Well, think of his discovery as a sort of music that only computers hear.  He has demonstrated that he can write a song for a machine, and make it act unpredictably.”

“Oh. Well that’s nice, isn’t it?  Why would anyone want to sing to a computer?”

“You don’t see at all, do you?”

“Nope. He could write all the silly songs he wants and I don’t see why anyone would need to kill him.  Over songs.  Which we probably would not even be able to hear…”John reasons, confusion marked on the forehead and brows of the doctor’s face. “I mean research does show that music can, in some cases, aid healing in trauma patients.  Stimulate brain activity in those who have lapsed into coma.  Is that what you mean?”

“Closer.  Good John.  Think.  Moriarty feigned being able to break into any computer to get to all things computers controlled.”

“I think I see… no, I don’t.”

“They were on the wrong path, John.  They were trying to force their way in, because with a computer it is garbage in and garbage out.  What if it were no longer a surety?  What if you found a way to make the machine, like you.  Love even.”

“Science fiction?  You mean like artificial intelligence?”

“Exactly.  Imagine if you had a secret way to bring a about an uncomputerlike reaction by pulsing a sound wave nobody could hear and with this, you could make any computer wake up, relax it’s programs and trust you.  This is the first step toward that and everyone either wants it or wants to stop others from obtaining the possibilities.  The maestro is on the verge of changing the world and he doesn’t even quite know what he holds.  There have been overtures, but he is a difficult man and yet the idea is already in the greedy hearts of the world. Moriarty couldn’t deliver on his promise and his time for producing it was crushing him.  He killed himself because he had no way out.  He had promised something he could not deliver and he wanted out.  The pressure of continued failure came to outweigh his egos ability to admit that his great maniacal vision might just be a pipe dream.   Do you see what would have happened if he let that information be known?”

“He still had more money than he could ever hope to spend.  Nothing he couldn’t do or have.  Not devastating enough to eat a bullet over, I would think, ” John said.

“Ahh, but there you are wrong.  He had promised this power, tread on its eventuality. Wanted his accolades marked in history with awe and doom.  He wanted to be a Hannibal, an Akhenaten, or even a Napolean and not a Corrigan or a Blondlot.”

“And he made Sherlock fake his death.  Sherlock had the code.  He had Moriarty’s worthless code.”  John groaned and his hands rose to rub his temples.

“There was no code and he’d failed to get my son to help him.  He didn’t make Sherlock fake his death.  He gave him the choice to die with him, which in his mind would be almost as chillingly evocative.  He left behind a mystery.  Why would a man like him end tragically on a roof in London?   With his disgraced, once heroic, adversary?  Was it a lovers spat?  Who killed whom and why?  What would become of his legacy?  Was he Moriarty or Brook?  Don’t you see?  All the attention you so bitterly hate, he craved.  A hundred years from now they would still be dragging it threw the trenches of supposed new details and theories.  My family name would again be forever tied to a mad genius and shamed before the crown.  The Holmes family has survived such attention and sensational tragic rhetoric in the past.”

“So if you can’t gain fame through a great work, gain infamy and be remembered as something unsolved.”    

“Yes.  But, the code didn’t exist then.  It doesn’t exist now, in fact.  But, if the two logics, the two concepts were to be combined, who wouldn’t want it for themselves.  Mycroft, wants it destroyed, he wants Tigers people hunted down and questioned. He wants the maestro murdered by others, because our people want to gather the two factions and push the technology.  The other layers want some combined variation on that theme.  But Maestro isn’t a buffoon and nobody knows where he has these secrets or how they work.  The Swiss are very protective of their native grown genius and this venue is one of the few vulnerabilities.”

“So we have a spook convention disguised as a music festival?”

“Perfectly adequate assessment.  I think perhaps your association with my son has greatly accelerated you leaps of logic.”  Rat pulled a dark formal tux with a morning coat and swallowtail cut free from the garment bag and examined it.  It actually was not black, but the deepest hue of aubergine.  It set off Fords grey salted waves and somehow made the wood on the violin look richer.  He dug in a box, to try on the shoes and next to that was a box of other accessories.

John followed suit, digging through the various compartments and discovering silk socks, an alligator patterned belt and Italian wedge nose shoes that matched the belt.  His own suit, was more classically cut and anonymous.  It was elegant, but did not stand out with distinguishing cut or stitching.  He liked it at once.  It was a perfect mid-range between wealth and stretched means and would keep him perfectly well appointed without drawing attention to everyman-John, the king of overlooked and unnoticed.  He smiled with approval.

“This should do quite nicely.  Very good nick, by the way, but not flaming ostentatious tosser.  After seeing your’s, I feared I’d find apple green with frills in here,”  John said, taking a piss at Rat with good natured disapproval.

“I will be on camera, John.  It is a persona that must bear a certain level of…”

“Gay?” John popped into his friends pause.

Rat rolled his eyes, “I was going to say, avant-gardism. “  

John snickered, genuinely happy to feel that he was a few hours away from actually accomplishing something other than healing and hiding.

 

“He’s here?  Right now?  Will I catch a glimpse of him, do you think?” John asked as casually as possible not looking up or wanting to give away the flutters his stomach felt at just the possibility of seeing Sherlock.

Rat’s eyes narrowed, but he answered without sounding as annoyed as he had since the night before. “Yes.  Probably warming up.  He is to be a special guest of Herman Van Horn.  His solo begins in four hours, if you would like to hurry, we can easily be in attendance.  Our own small event won’t be until later. I thought you might enjoy seeing us both play.  You will, of course be the only member of the audience who will appreciate the significance of the dead father and his dead son, playing together for the first time in public.  I wonder if he will recognize me?”

“Is there a chance he will?  Isn’t that a bit risky?” John asked as if confused.

Sherrinford winked, and replied, “There is always that risk, John.  That’s what makes it…fun.”

“Fun?”  John shook his head in disapproval and pursed his lips before rezipping the second garment bag and whistling and making gestures that they were both mad as a sack of ferrets.  “Ok.  Well, I will just go…”  He didn’t finish his sentence and turned toward the door to the lavatory.

Rat chuckled and again tucked his violin under his chin, playing a happy folk tune as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

 

**_Possessed with a full confidence of the certain success which British valor must gain over such enemies, I have led you up these steep and dangerous rocks, only solicitous to show you the foe within your reach._ **

**_\--James Wolfe_ **

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

"Wrong Way" Corrigan (1938): On 17 July, pioneer aviator Douglas Corrigan takes off from an airfield in Brooklyn, New York, headed for California. He lands in Ireland.

 

The N-ray (1903): At a time of great upheaval in the physical sciences, French physicist Rene Prosper Blondlot announces the discovery of "N-rays," a form of radiation he calls even more important than X-rays, discovered just a few years earlier.

The announcement triggers a barrage of scientific research that very quickly convinces everyone -- Monsieur Blondlot being the notable exception -- that N-rays do not exist. To this day, Blondlot remains a poster boy for double-checking your work


	15. Song of Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things don't always go as planned and John watches Sherlock and Sherrinford on stage.  
> [](http://s1303.photobucket.com/user/howlynn/media/Cougar_AS532_T_334_Swiss_Air_Force_Rescue_Exercise_zps0781a868.jpg.html)

**_Chapter 15 / 38_ **

**_Song of ashes_ **

* * *

 

****

**_When I play on my fiddle in Dooney._ **

**_Folk dance like a wave of the sea;_ **

**_\--The Fiddler Of Dooney by William Butler Yeats_ **

 

 

John sat in the third row, feeling vulnerable and wishing he was not a bundle of nerves.  Sherrinford had briefed him a little more about the evening’s events, but his low isle seat didn’t afford him much in the way of safe look-out position.  There were thousands of people milling about and he would have rather taken position back stage in the catwalks above the orchestra.

The lights dimmed and the curtains rose.  There were welcome speeches given in French, German, and English then many dull introductions.  Finally, the music began and it was apparent the beginning was some sort of competition, but John could not understand all that was going on.  Various conductors and musicians took the stage and an excerpt would play. 

When Sherlock took the stage under the guise of Maestro Du Bay, John’s heart filled with clashing emotions before his former flat mate bowed and took the microphone.  Granted, he looked nothing like Sherlock Holmes, but John would know him anywhere. His face was cool and aloof and his actions graceful and formal.  He spoke in French first then repeated his short introduction to the piece in English.

“My composition is entitled Army Doctor in A, and I would like to apologize in advance on behalf of the players who only had one twenty minute practice due to a mix-up in travel arrangements, they are remarkable and any flaw you find must rest entirely upon my shoulders,”  Sherlock said genteelly.

John’s breath caught at the title and his head tilted slightly as the number began with random battle drums sounding like thunder in the distance.  Violas began a marching sound as snare drums tapped out gunfire.  Violins cried of fallen soldiers and cellos moaned of pain.  Then the strings all began to take on a whap-whap sound as if helicopters grew nearer.  The drums picked up the sound and soon oboes began to cavort amongst the gunfire.

 Sherlock lifted his violin and began a slow wailing sorrowful tune as the orchestra quieted to the sound of an arrhythmic heartbeat.  The violin seemed to shout orders and other heartbeats joined, each distinct as if the doctor were calming them, taming them each into steady slow rhythm.  Slowly, the battle sounds again crashed and the violin became frantic before a gunshot and it screamed and fell down the scale before joining the heart beats out of rhythm with the main undertone.  The heartbeat abruptly stopped and a silence filled the hall for a moment before the violins mourned the soul of the army doctor and dissipated as if carried by fluttering wings and a weeping solitude of a fallen hero.  

 When Sherlock began to play, for John, time stopped.  He could see what Sherlock had said as clearly as if he had watched the scene.  When the piece was over he had to remind himself to breath.  Tears made his vision swim as Sherlock bowed to massive applause.

The woman sitting next to him looked over to John and smiled as she whispered, “He is quite good.” She assumed the music alone had moved him to tears.  John just nodded.  He could not take his thirsty eyes off the stage.  Sherlock bowed again and waved his hand toward the orchestra in gratitude and for a moment his eyes met John’s before sweeping on without recognition.

Sherrinford entered the stage without introduction, his violin screaming a high clear note before sweeping down into an Irish jig that made a few smile and giggle.  He burst onto stage as if he were born to be there and the announcer gave him a friendly familiar introduction as Bernard Morgenstern, composer of a piece called Fairytide, and somehow Rat looked as though he had no idea that anything other than his violin and his music existed. The melody was lively and had a folk dance feel, breaking the somber mood Sherlock’s piece had rendered.  The orchestra followed his playful complex feats and many were actually smiling with the pleasure of the bright yet challenging harmonies.  The audience adored him and he played with them as if he could flirt with each individual and coveted their attention.

John’s attention was again riveted to the stage and Rat’s demeanor compared to Sherlock’s gave the impression that Rat was a radical teen rebel whose hair happened to be dyed grey whilst Sherlock was old, stodgy and full of himself.

John noticed Sherlock watching his father with cool boredom as he let his violin sing the new tune with precision, yet he rarely glanced at his part.   He couldn’t help but wonder exactly what Sherlock was deducing about the maniac with the violin.  He certainly was not making deductions of paternal ties to himself with that expression of disdainful tedium he was wearing. The turn-ups on his tux must have fooled Sherlock.    John pulled out his camera phone and took several pictures, in case he ever needed proof that the great Sherlock Holmes doesn’t know all things at all times.

It was a relief to see Sherlock in all honesty, though it did not escape John’s notice that Sherlock seemed to be dealing with John’s death far better than had been true in the reverse.  Sherlock was thinner than he’d been during their Baker Street days, but he had been thinner when they had had their little talk back in London.  He looked pretty healthy considering his best friend had jumped off a bridge after he left him to rot.

 John kept secretly hoping that Sherlock would happen to catch his eye again and tried to imagine what Sherlock’s reaction would be, no matter how terrible that would turn out, John still longed to see something on his mad detective’s face even if it were rage, duplicity and shocked arrogance. 

There were other solos and quartets and finally, the hall filled with applause as the conductor finally made his appearance, explaining that he wanted people to truly appreciate the depth of talent on the stage behind him.  When he finally turned and lifted his arms, the hall filled with power and the graceful sounds were overwhelming.

The music filled the great building as if a storm rolled from the sea and John watched father and son play together with only one aware of the privilege.  Their movements were synchronized so precisely it was mesmerizing.  John had to force himself to look away and cast a quick glance around to look for danger.  There seemed to be no threat and yet a few moments later, John’s focus on the stage lost the wonder and his hackles began to rise. 

He glanced around again, ears beginning to buzz with adrenaline fueled fear as his instincts told him of imminent danger a split second before the peaceful symphony darkened into pure smoking hell and chaos.

A concussive wave filled with debris knocked him forward and his ears went silent with pain as a warm hand of heated air slammed him forward and lifted him before discarding him like a rag into a rubbish pile of crippled bodies and crumpled theater seating damned by the stage itself. More blasts seemed to roll over him like thunder, and he tucked his head and closed his eyes and wondered if Sherlock and Rat were some of the muffled voices he could hear screaming.

The breath had been knocked out of him and his lower legs were sending throbbing shrieks to his brain, while he tried to disentangle himself and draw a choking breath in the darkness.  He could hear metal chairs clanking and footsteps before the sounds began to crescendo into wails of pain and fear and confusion.

 The darkness was broken with several great beams of white and all the wounded terrified people nearby naturally began reaching out to the only authority in this darkened hell.  That was when the shots began to drum wild staccato and the tide of mournful shadows reversed as they realized their mistake.  But they didn’t have time to save themselves because those of the light, swept their retching sticks at the mass of human turmoil and the victims danced pirouettes and the rhythms of disjointed butchers song.

John knew he’d taken a blow to the head, from someone else’s head, and he hovered near consciousness for a few seconds mind warping into nonsense of how beautiful the airborne drops of blood looked in the smoky light and how lucky he was to see this grand world of war again.  He finally got his lungs to fill with the smell of battle, feces, perfume, the distinct metal tang of human liver, champagne still wafting from the lips of a man wide eyed with death and the expensive leather and peppermint of the ownerless purse contents scattered by his face.  John’s face broke into a smile as if he had just come home as his body slowly came back on line and he could see the single flaw in the killer’s efficient plan.

He rolled left, retrieving his main weapon from under his shirt tail and used the torso of a dead bald man as cover.

John sighted down and just behind the beams of light and dispatched six of them before the others realized they were no longer butchering sheep.  There was a sheepdog still in the herd.  Before they could react, John heard Rat scramble off stage and join him.    There were others now shooting wild and random and  John shouted, “Where is the Maestro?”

Rat shook his head, “Took a music stand to the face, bled out.  Operation Fubar. We need to poof!”

“Sherlock?” John asked at once.

Rat shook his head, “Wounded but already in the wind.  Pop or drop?” Rat demanded to know if John was in a condition to move or would he have to stay and play wounded innocent. 

John saw his chance and pulled the trigger twice, two targets fell.  “You always spoil my fun.”  He said as he reloaded.  “I’m fine.”

“Then quit playing with your toys and get to your chores, son.” Rat said in a Mayberry American imitation.

They scrambled low across the stage.  John noted the many musicians who quietly lay huddled in terror shielding instruments in their terror.  He followed Rat up the ladder to the catwalks above and more climbing brought them out on a narrow roof passageway.  They had only traveled a short distance when shots barely missed them. 

“Who now?”  John kept moving trying to pin down who was making them a target.

“We are not the only ones who want out of this clean.” Rat said softly.

“Your cello player?  Did we leave him behind?”  John asked suddenly.

“Probably compromised.  He never showed.  Or. Warned.  This was a set up.  I can smell it.  I didn’t know the maestro personally, but I would bet you a million pounds that that was not him.” Rat said as he let his head bob around and eyes scan the surroundings.  “So, other than the bombs and the terrorist attack, what did you think?” Rat asked as he duck walked to the end of a plumbing ventilation bank.  

John followed  without comment.  “About what?  The whole thing blew up in our face, we have no idea what happened and we are now getting shot at for no apparent reason, typical day at the office?”

“Not that.  The music, John.  What did you think of that?”

John snickered, and then tried to clear his throat to cover.  “Seriously?  You want me to give you a fan girl review while we are trying to be invisible from people shooting at us while you are in a purple tuxedo and your main concern is, did your performance on stage impress me?” John said as they darted around a corner, somewhat out of breath.  He leaned over to look back the way they came and tucked back just in time for a slug to give the old plaster above his head a reason to slough off spectacularly in huge chunks. 

“Christ.  Stop that you bloody sod!  Why are you even shooting at us? “ John hollered.

A few seconds later a familiar accent rang across the rooftop.    “Your frekin who again?”

Rat’s eyes narrowed and he stood up like he’d lost his senses, “Grady Pauly, you never could shoot a wee cock with a great canon!”

There was silence for a moment.  “A Rat Bastard. Left me here to die.” The man said with good cheer.

“Lucky for you another came along to keep that from happening, provided you don’t accidently hit something.”  Rat approached the spot the shots had come from.  He ignored John signaling for him to get down and walked slowly across the roof in his crumpled tux like a man searching for a wayward kitten.  His gun came up as he approached the target, but the smile on his face was genuine.  “Before you ask, you are not dead.”

John scrambled to a new position, much less trusting of his companions luck.    Rat tucked his weapon away and squatted down next to the old man who was clearly wounded and not going anywhere, before he gently relieved him of the micro-machine-gun and laid it to the side.  “Well, don’t tell me, all this frekin time that you were a traitor after all.” 

John stepped up behind Rat and reacted at once to the blood, “I’m a doctor and I am going to help you, alright?”

“Oh jeaa-zuuz in his mercy.  You’re dead too!” Now the man seems to be panicking.

“No. I am not dead and you need to calm down…”

“The bloody hell I do…I know your face.  Seen it every day for months. He lost his bloody mind over it…over you.  Talks to you all the time, just like your frekin in the room.  Thinks we don’t know.  You're John bloody Watson and this is Sir Sherri Holmes, dead and gone more ‘n twenty years.  That bastard killed me and took…he took…” The man’s eyes rolled back in his head and he said no more.

“Is he?”

John shook his head, “Not yet, going into shock.  Needs a hospital.  He’s been shot at least twice and at his age…”

“Watch it, junior.” Rat said pulling out his phone and punching buttons.  John made do with what he had at hand and managed to stop the bleeding, but there was nothing he could do to pull the man out of shock.

Ten minutes later, a military Swiss chopper hovered at the rooftop and three men helped John move the man onto a stretcher.  The three of them evacuated the scene of chaos below and Rat stared out of the window without further explanation.   They landed at the Honorary Consulate of the United Kingdom in Lugano. Within moments of landing, John was shown a small room set up as a clinic and though it was tight quarters he found what he needed to get the man stable.  There was even a small blood bank and chemists facilities.  John had things well in hand by the time the actual Swiss physician breezed in looking put out and grouchy. 

He didn’t take kindly to John having invaded his territory and despite the obvious care the man had just received; he belligerently demanded that this was not a place for amateur medics.   John backed off rather than make a scene.  He had no idea how Rat had arranged this rescue and the crisis was over and as always, John’s adrenaline began to crash alarmingly.   He collapsed in a chair in the hallway and was sound asleep when Rat touched his arm.

“John, we have accommodations for you to rest.  It isn’t far.” Rat said weary and obviously shaken. 

“How’s your friend?” John asked with a slurred voice, as his eyes tried to focus and he stretched a crick in his neck, which exacerbated his throbbing head.

“He’ll do.  On his way back to Merry England and mad as hell at me.  You know your head is still bleeding, I can get him to take a look.”

John’s hand came away from his hair covered in blood and he nodded that that would be a good idea.  He Looked at Rat and it dawned on him that he was not as relieved as John.  He paced and fidgeted and sighed.

“You’re not telling me something.  Out?”  John demanded.

“Sherlock.   He’s not in the wind.  He.  He was taken.  Along with two others.  Grady was wounded and got left behind.  He thinks Sherlock was shot and collapsed or he was drugged.  Grady woke up and was alone.  He suspects it was planned by the group they had been covertly operating a guerilla sabotage sting for my wife against.  Mycroft is aware of our cover identities and he intends to be here to debrief us in a few hours.  We are screwed, John.  And we lost Sherlock.”

“Oh, God no.” John’s face goes white. “Tiger?  You think it’s him?”

Rat’s jaw tightens and he nods solemnly, unable to hide the pure terror welling in his eyes.   

 

**_For the good are always the merry,_ **

**_Save by an evil chance,_ **

**_And the merry love the fiddle,_ **

**_And the merry love to dance:_ **

****

**_And when the folk there spy me,_ **

**_They will all come up to me,_ **

**_With 'Here is the fiddler of Dooney!'_ **

**_And dance like a wave of the sea._ **

**_\--The Fiddler Of Dooney by William Butler Yeats_ **


End file.
